You're Abusing an Old Man

In the days that followed, Gavin adjusted his schedule to a level that even the ghosts in the Hufflepuff Common Room found outrageous.

Every morning before dawn, he would appear at the Headmaster's Office door.

The Gargoyle didn't even bother to turn its eyes again. When it saw him coming, it lazily jumped to the side, revealing the spiral staircase behind it.

When he came out at night, the lights in the corridor were already off, and even Filch's cat didn't want to stay in the corridor any longer.

House-elf delivered all three meals directly to the Headmaster's Office, the silver lid on the tray being opened and closed repeatedly; sometimes Gavin would forget to eat.

Dumbledore's condition, on the other hand, underwent a visible change over the course of the days.

For the first two days, he was still the same energetic principal, personally pouring Gavin a cup of tea from the teapot brought by the House-elf, and then gracefully sitting back in his high-backed armchair.

By the fourth or fifth day, he had stopped pouring tea for Gavin. Instead, he would sit in his chair with a cup of honey tea, pretending to doze off. He said he was practicing Meditation, occasionally opening one eye to check if Gavin was still there, and then closing his eyes again.

A week later, Dumbledore simply abandoned all pretense of decorum. A Changsha sofa appeared under Fawkes' Perch, with an old-looking wool blanket lying on it, and the pillows were long since deformed.

On the night of the eleventh day, Gavin was closing his eyes, concentrating on controlling the Magic of the Philosopher's Stone at his fingertips, when he suddenly heard a weary voice behind him.

"Mr. Gu."

He opened his eyes and saw Dumbledore leaning against the armrest of the Changsha, not wearing his glasses, half his face buried in the pillow, a tuft of hair sticking up behind his ear. With his last bit of strength, he raised a finger and pointed in Gavin's direction.

"Have you ever considered—" Dumbledore said, "That old people also need rest?"

Gavin glanced at him. "You can sleep in the Pensieve during the day."

Dumbledore remained silent for a moment.

He silently pulled the wool blanket up a little, wrapping himself up more tightly. He didn't look like the greatest white wizard in Hogwarts history, but more like a freshman tormented by a final paper until dawn.

"That's elder abuse," he said, his voice muffled as he looked at the ceiling. "I've heard that's a serious crime in Muggle World."

Gavin then turned his gaze back to the bright red stone in his palm, without replying.

The light from the Philosopher's Stone danced at his fingertips, transforming from a faint glow that could be extinguished at any moment into a power where every Magic could be precisely controlled and flow steadily at a certain frequency.

Just now, he finally succeeded!

The Magic stabilized into an extremely thin thread of light, winding between the knuckles like a red-hot silk thread.

The Philosopher's Stone is not so easy to control; even though Dumbledore taught him the methods and tricks, it was still very difficult.

More than two weeks have passed since the beginning.

But all the effort I've put in during this time has been worthwhile.

The Magic reaction just now shows that he can now control the Magic of the Philosopher's Stone with ease.

The next step he needed to take was the truly crucial one: entering the subject's Consciousness Space.

He had previously discussed with Dumbledore, just to be on the safe side, they should first try entering the Consciousness Space of a normal wizard.

So he looked up at Dumbledore, who had already sat up from the sofa, put on his glasses, and his joking expression had disappeared.

"Are you sure?" Gavin asked.

"I'm certain," Dumbledore said. "There is no one more suitable than me."

Dumbledore had known about Gavin's plan for a long time and had decided to be the experimental subject long ago.

Because they didn't actually know what the consequences would be of rashly entering someone's Consciousness Space using the Philosopher's Stone. If there was anyone who could bear all of this and give Gavin the highest margin of error, it would definitely be the White Wizard.

Moreover, Dumbledore wanted to do something; he didn't want to just stand by and watch like an old man.

Although he's not good at Meditation, he's still good enough as material.

After he finished speaking, he stood up, walked over to Gavin, sat down, placed his hands on his knees, and leaned forward slightly, as if waiting for an outcome he already knew would come.

Gavin didn't ask a second time.

The Magic of the Philosopher's Stone was activated once again.

This time, the feeling was completely different from before. When he practiced before, the Magic only flowed outside his body, but now, he wanted to let this power envelop him and enter another person's Consciousness Space.

He closed his eyes and found that familiar feeling and place.

Then, I stepped inside.

Before me lay a pure white expanse.

It felt like standing deep in the clouds, or floating in mid-air; this white space was incredibly quiet, without a single sound.

Gavin took a moment to adjust, then he saw something in the distance.

A huge white Whirlpool.

It hovered in mid-air, slowly rotating, its size larger than any Manas Consciousness structure he had ever seen before.

The Whirlpool maintained its stable shape, but upon closer inspection, one could also see that it was changing subtly, like breathing, as if it were undergoing some kind of silent and protracted operation.

Its surface has a soft white sheen that is not dazzling, but makes people hesitant to get too close.

Gavin's gaze shifted downwards.

Below the Whirlpool was a wide river.

The water flowed silently, its surface calm and deep, its depth and the opposite bank invisible. It stretched from one end of the field of vision to the other, its volume abundant, its flow steady, carrying an ancient and serene rhythm.

Alaya Consciousness.

Gavin stared at the river for several seconds.

He mentally compared his river to Dumbledore's, and it was difficult to make a judgment in a short time.

He wasn't sure if his was wider or Dumbledore's was wider, but one thing he was sure of: neither was as wide as Cordelia's boundless river, which was like an ocean.

Gavin snapped out of his reverie and got down to business; he needed to find Dumbledore's conscious image.

He walked forward—or rather, he felt he was walking forward, because there were no real landmarks in this space, no ground beneath his feet, but the sensation of movement was clear. He circled around the enormous white Whirlpool, scanning the pure white space along the riverbank.

Then he saw it.

He stopped in his tracks, frozen in place.

Before me stood a Giant.

A true Giant —about the same height as Hagrid, with shoulders as broad as a wall and arms as thick as tree trunks; standing there, he was a mountain of flesh. But the face was Dumbledore's. The iconic Half-moon Spectacles sat slightly crooked on that large nose, the blue eyes were just like Dumbledore's, and the white beard on his chin was exactly the same as the real one, only several sizes larger, hanging down in front of his chest like a silver waterfall.

Well, how should I put it?

Gavin looked up at the Giant version of Dumbledore's consciousness in front of him and remained silent for several seconds.

Is this the power of the White Wizard?

He looked down at himself and felt like a child playing in the mud.

Gavin dismissed the thought and walked up to the Giant Dumbledore. He observed him carefully for a while and quickly confirmed one thing—this enormous consciousness figure, like Cordelia's consciousness, had a dull and lifeless gaze.

That empty feeling was exactly the same, like looking at a wax figure, with lifelike features but no one behind it.

He took a deep breath and began his first attempt.

He reached out and grabbed Giant 'Dumbledore hand.

He had tried to grasp Cordelia's consciousness before. That time, his hand passed right through her, like passing through a cold, misty fog. He felt nothing and couldn't grasp anything. He still remembers that feeling of powerlessness.

This time is different.

His hand actually touched that huge palm. The first sensation was icy cold, like putting his hand into an old well in a stone wall in summer. But the "coldness" was not bone-chilling; it carried a calming and clean coolness.

He gently clenched his fingers, his fingertips touching the surface of that large hand, feeling the texture of the skin, feeling that it was solid and real beneath.

He caught it.

Gavin's lips twitched slightly.

Great, it worked! At least the beginning was successful.

He paused, calmed his excitement, and then began the second step.

He tried to pull the Giant Dumbledore away and move him to another position.

He grasped the cold, giant hand, took a step back, and tried to guide it.

The Giant remained completely still.

Gavin changed direction and posture, reaching up with both hands to pull. He mobilized more Magic, drawing the light of the Philosopher's Stone to a brighter level, allowing that power to extend along his conscious arms, wrapping around the giant hand—and then he exerted force.

It remained completely still.

He felt no resistance.

This is the strangest part. It's not the feeling of "there's a wall in front of you that you can't push," nor is it the feeling of "the other party is too strong to pull."

He simply couldn't do it. It was as if someone had written the rules at the bottom of this space, saying, "Things here cannot be changed," and every attempt he made was like using his body to pull on that invisible rule.

There is no resistance, it's just that it's impossible.

Consciousness has no weight; it can move, observe, and touch within the Consciousness Space —but can't it change?

Gavin did not give up.

He tried again and again, pulling the Giant Dumbledore by the hand to walk outside, going around to his back to push him, trying to use Magic to influence him from different angles. He tried every method he could think of, and put on every pose.

His Magic was being rapidly depleted with each attempt he made.

Finally, when the last bit of Magic was exhausted, Gavin withdrew.

He opened his eyes.

Dumbledore was sitting opposite him, leaning slightly forward, his hands clasped together, his gaze fixed intently on him. He saw Gavin move, lean back wearily in his chair, and rub his temples.

"Did it fail?" Dumbledore asked.

Gavin rubbed his temples again. "Not a complete success, but not a complete failure either."

Dumbledore waited for him to continue.

Gavin tidied his words and recounted the process he had just gone through.

The Philosopher's Stone did indeed allow him to break through the initial barrier; he successfully entered the Consciousness Space, successfully found Dumbledore's consciousness image, and successfully touched it—something that was completely impossible before.

But the second step, which is to change its position, is completely unacceptable.

"It's not that it can't be pushed," Gavin said, "It just can't be done. There's no resistance, nothing at all, like the rules themselves don't allow it."

Upon hearing this, Dumbledore's brow furrowed even deeper.

"I felt nothing." Dumbledore carefully recalled his experience. "After your consciousness entered my Consciousness Space, I didn't feel your presence at all."

Gavin was not surprised, and Cordelia felt nothing either. This seemed to be the basic reality of consciousness research—the observed cannot perceive the observer's presence.

Even with the Philosopher's Stone involved, this seems to remain unchanged.

"What about Meditation?" Gavin asked.

"Practicing," Dumbledore said, also trying new things and wanting to help, his fingers unconsciously twirling the tip of his mustache. "Not quite at your level yet."

He didn't say anything more, but Gavin understood.

This headmaster could suppress any Dark Wizard in Dueling and speak eloquently in the realm of Magical Theory, but on this matter—on the matter of entering the depths of his own consciousness—he, like Cordelia, was still standing outside the door.

The two remained silent for a moment.

"That's all for today," Gavin, standing up. "You should rest now."

Dumbledore nodded without ceremony. He took off his glasses and placed them on the armrest, then picked up the old wool blanket again and wrapped it around himself, the movements as practiced as if he had repeated them many times over the past two weeks.

As Gavin reached the door, he glanced back.

The lights in the Headmaster's Office were mostly dimmed. Dumbledore was wrapped in a blanket and huddled on the sofa, while Fawkes had buried his head under his wings on the Perch.

Another week has passed.

During that week, Gavin tried every method he could think of.

He adjusted the way he output Magic. At first, he conducted it directly, but later he switched to using the Magic of the Philosopher's Stone to construct tools in his Consciousness Space —but it didn't work; he couldn't even mold a shape.

He tried approaching the Giant Dumbledore with different rhythms—slow, fast, continuous, and pulsed—and carefully recorded each attempt, but each attempt failed.

He even tried starting from different positions: starting with his hands, starting with his feet, starting with his shoulders.

The result is the same.

He could pose Dumbledore all sorts of ways. He could raise that giant hand, lower it, make it open, make it clench its fist, straighten its arm, and even fix its crooked Half-moon Spectacles. He could do all of these things.

But it just can't change its position.

Not even one step.

That Giant version of Dumbledore stood forever in the same spot, like a stone statue that had taken root.

No matter what method he used, how much Magic he spent, or what strategy he adopted, the result was always the same—whether his hand passed through the Giant's body, grasped it, pushed it, or pulled it, the position of that enormous body did not shift even by a grain of sand.

However, the magical Magic he could draw upon from the Philosopher's Stone was no longer at its original level.

From his first attempt until now, he has been able to mobilize several times more Magic than he initially did.

The light from the Philosopher's Stone in his hand became increasingly stable, evolving from a thin thread to a point where it could extend into a net within his Consciousness Space, with multiple beams of light advancing simultaneously. Each time he entered, he felt his manipulation had become more refined and his control stronger.

But the result remained unchanged.

That evening, when Gavin came out of the Headmaster's Office, he did not continue his debriefing practice in the corridor as usual.

He went straight back to the Hufflepuff Common Room.

The sound of the wooden barrel lid being removed was particularly clear in the corridor late at night.

He walked through the empty Common Room and into the dormitory. The room was pitch black, the curtains were half open, and the moonlight drew a square grid of light on the floor. Ernie and Justin were already asleep. Ernie's blanket was neatly pulled up to his chin, while Justin's was askew on the floor.

Gavin did not go to bed with her.

He walked over and sat down by the bed. The wooden floor was cool, and he could feel its hard texture even through his robe. He didn't turn on the lamp or take off his robe. He simply leaned against the edge of the bed, stretched one leg out, bent the other, and rested his arms on his knees. Then he turned to look out the window.

The moonlight sliced the shadow of the window frame into pieces, which fell onto his knees.

He just stared at those few shadows, motionless.

I don't know how much time passed.

"Giggle."

A small, rough cry came from beside my feet.

Gavin turned his head.

In a corner where the moonlight couldn't reach, he saw his toad, the little creature he had long forgotten, squatting on the floor with an unknown insect stuffed in its mouth. One of the insect's legs was sticking out, struggling weakly, trembling slightly.

The toad seemed to sense his gaze, blinking its bulging round eyes as it looked at him.

The two, one human and one pet, gazed at each other quietly.

Gavin stared at the insect's leg that was still sticking out for a long time.

Clearly, his experimental materials had once again created their own food.

Wait a moment--

Experimental materials?

Suddenly, he thought of something.

If you have no problems, then the Philosopher's Stone has no problems either.

Is it possible that the problem lies with Dumbledore?

Was that Giant too powerful for me?

Gavin grabbed the toad from the ground, stood up, and ran outside.

Startled by the sudden movement, the toad opened its mouth wide, not even noticing the insect falling to the ground. It puffed out its cheeks and bounced the insect in his palm, making a protesting "clucking" sound.

The wooden tub in the Common Room closed behind him, and the torches in the corridor flickered as he ran past, illuminating the sleeping portraits on the wall. The figures in the paintings were startled awake, but before they could even utter a word of reproach, he was already far away.

The Gargoyle at the Headmaster's Office door saw him rushing over and didn't even bother to turn around, letting him in directly. Gavin three steps at a time and stepped up the spiral staircase, raised his hand and knocked on the Headmaster's Office door. He couldn't control his strength and knocked the Oak door loudly.

The door opened.

Dumbledore stood behind the door.

He was wearing a long, dark blue bathrobe, and a topped-up nightcap was perched crookedly on his head, the pom-pom at the tip dangling beside his ears. He wasn't wearing glasses; the crescent-shaped frames left faint imprints on the skin on either side of his nose, and his eye bags were twice as noticeable as they had been two weeks ago.

He looked at Gavin, then at the toad in Gavin's hand that was being tossed around so much it was foaming at the mouth.

"Mr. Gu," Dumbledore's voice was eerily calm, "Whatever it is, we can talk about it tomorrow morning. At my age, I can't afford any more turmoil."

Gavin held the toad between the two men.

"I've thought of a problem," he said quickly. "If I don't have a problem, and the Philosopher's Stone doesn't have a problem, then maybe the problem isn't with me."

Dumbledore blinked.

"You let me into your Consciousness Space, and I saw your conscious form," Gavin continued, "A Giant. About the same height as Hagrid, with your face."

"Then what?"

"I'm wondering if it's possible that your consciousness is too powerful for me at my current level?"

Dumbledore a moment. He looked at Gavin's expression, and the drowsiness in Gavin's blue eyes, as if he had just been woken up, gradually faded.

"Tell me your thoughts," he said, his voice no longer languid as if he had just been woken up.

"I was too confident and things went too smoothly in the past. Moreover, my consciousness had no weight or mechanical feedback, and even when I used several times the amount of Magic, there was no change. This made me subconsciously ignore the strength of our souls."

"Now I'm wondering, is it possible that you are simply too powerful, and my slight progress is utterly insignificant in comparison?"

Five minutes later, the two sat down in front of the Philosopher's Stone again.

This time, Gavin wasn't entering Dumbledore's Consciousness Space —but rather the toad, which was quietly perched on his other knee, its belly bulging against his robes.

The Magic of the Philosopher's Stone was quickly and skillfully manipulated, and the Red Light stabilized into a thin but bright dome, enveloping Gavin within it.

Gavin closed his eyes and, following that familiar process, cut in.

He entered the toad's Consciousness Space.

Unlike Dumbledore's, this place is very small, like a tiny pond with blurred edges, and the space is filled with a dim, damp atmosphere.

He searched for a long time.

Finally, in a corner of the space, they found the miniature representation of the toad's consciousness.

It's way too small.

When he came in last time, he almost ignored it. It was a grayish-green, fist-sized ball of light, huddled in a corner, unlike Whirlpool or River, but like a small, curled-up seaweed, barely glowing against the dim background.

Gavin crouched down; he didn't try to grab it.

He held up one finger.

He brought his fingertip close to the faint light, which seemed ready to go out at any moment.

Then he touched it gently.

The grayish-green light moved back a little.

Just a tiny bit, like a bean being pushed by a finger and sliding a short distance across the table.