The resentful footsteps of Filch finally faded into nothingness at the end of the corridor, the stone walls of the castle cutting off all traces of his spying and hostility.
Only then did Alan step back out from the shadows. He stood before the stone sculpture of the One-Eyed Witch, the air around him cold and still.
Inside his mind palace, countless possibilities lit up and vanished like stars blinking in the night sky.
Since this was a secret passage to Hogsmeade, its designer must have considered that students would be the ones using it. Therefore, the method of opening it could not possibly rely on advanced magic or overly complicated rituals.
A password. That was the most likely option.
"Open Sesame?"
He whispered the words in the lowest of tones. The heavy stone walls swallowed his voice completely, without even the faintest echo. The statue didn't move at all, its single eye staring blankly into the void ahead.
"Alohomora."
The standard syllables of the Unlocking Charm, accompanied by a faint ripple of magic, also vanished without effect.
Nothing.
Alan's gaze began to scrutinize the statue itself. His mind palace filtered away all irrelevant information, leaving only the most essential elements.
"One-Eyed Witch."
Its defining feature was visual asymmetry.
"Secret Passage."
Its essential function was connection and separation of space.
Asymmetry… separation…
A word from ancient spell etymology research flashed across his mind like a bolt of lightning.
He reached out his finger and tapped twice against the cold, rough hunchback of the statue, the dull sound echoing softly.
Then, in a clear tone devoid of emotion—like stating a law of physics—he spoke the word:
"Dissendium!"
The last syllable fell.
Click… grind…
A set of harsh, grating gears turned within the statue. The grotesque hunchback slowly slid to one side, tearing open a black opening in the wall—just wide enough for a single person to stoop and pass through.
A musty, earthy smell mixed with damp air rushed out.
But Alan did not immediately enter.
He had no particular interest at the moment in Hogsmeade's butterbeer or Honeydukes' sweets.
At that very instant, another smell drifted in from deeper within the castle, carried by the underground airflow. It was completely different—warm, rich, and primal—awakening the most basic appetite of the human body.
The faint char of toasted bread, mingled with the thick aroma of meat stew, and layered with a sweet trace of fruit jam.
"The kitchen."
The mind palace instantly locked onto the source of the scent.
Abandoning the secret passage before him, Alan turned and followed the aroma, venturing deeper into the underground corridor. The walls here were damper than those above, the torchlight dimmer and more suffocated.
Soon, he came across an inconspicuous corner where he found the legendary entrance.
It was a large oil painting in a rustic frame, depicting a basket overflowing with fruit: apples, bananas, grapes, and a single bright green pear.
He remembered the description from the book.
Reaching out, he ran his fingertips across the smooth surface of the pear in a gentle, rhythmic tickle.
What happened next was nothing short of magical.
The painted pear began to tremble slightly, emitting a barely audible giggling sound. Then, its form twisted and elongated, transforming into a rounded, bronze-colored door handle.
Alan grasped the handle and gave it a light push.
The frame swung inward without a sound, revealing a warm, bright, bustling world beyond.
The sight before him made even his mind—normally filled to the brim with data and logic—go blank for an instant.
It was a vast chamber, nearly the same size as the grand Gryffindor Hall upstairs. Beneath the towering stone ceiling lay piles of gleaming copper pots and soot-blackened iron cauldrons stacked high.
Hundreds of house-elves, dressed in tea towels embroidered with the Hogwarts crest, were shouting, running, and darting back and forth in a frenzy as they prepared the evening feast for the entire school.
The air was saturated with the fragrance of food and the pulse of magic.
His sudden entrance immediately stirred up a commotion.
Almost instantly, more than a dozen elves stopped what they were doing, staring at him with their tennis-ball-sized eyes before eagerly rushing over to greet him.
"A guest!"
"Does sir need anything?"
"Have a little meat pie, sir! Fresh from the oven!"
"Try our pumpkin juice, the freshest there is!"
They scrambled over one another to push food into Alan's hands, their eyes brimming with eagerness and flattery.
Alan took a half-step back, giving them a polite bow of refusal for the pies and drinks.
Unlike most wizards, he did not take their service for granted. At this moment, his mind palace was working at unprecedented speed, analyzing these peculiar little beings before him.
Their magic.
That was what fascinated him the most.
No wand as a conduit. No incantation as a medium. Pure thought alone could conjure objects, move things, change the very shape of matter.
It was an entirely different magical system—a framework that bypassed the convoluted casting process of human wizards. A system more fundamental, more efficient.
Alan crouched down so that his calm eyes met those of an older elf with a white beard, clearly the eldest among them. That single gesture made the rest of the elves fall quiet.
"Excuse me," he said, his tone utterly free of condescension—only pure academic curiosity and respect. "May I ask you a few questions about your magic?"
His manner left the elder elf wide-eyed, as if overwhelmed by the honor. Its ears trembled with excitement.
"Sir… y-you may ask… Tina will be happy to answer any question you ask, sir!"
"Good." Alan nodded. He pointed to a brass platter nearby, his question cutting straight to the essence. "When you cast a spell—say, to make this platter hot—in your mind, do you imagine giving the command 'make it hot,' or do you picture the final state of it 'already being hot'?"
The question clearly reached beyond Tina's daily scope of thought. She tilted her head, puzzled, straining to consider it, before finally answering in a hesitant tone:
"It… it is thinking of it already hot, sir. Yes, just thinking it is already hot."
"I see."
Inside Alan's mind palace, a key insight lit up in bold clarity.
"Result-oriented spellcasting," he murmured to himself. "Bypassing the process, directly defining the outcome." Then he turned back to Tina. "This powerful ability—is it something innate to your kind, or does it stem from some ancient contract bound between you and the castle of Hogwarts?"
Using the simplest and most logical phrasing, Alan began asking the elves about the essence of contract magic and result-based spellcasting.
He even explained from a Muggle physics perspective—how the acceleration of molecules produced heat energy, the microscopic principle behind what humans called "heating."
This novel, rigorous, and logical knowledge was like opening a door to an entirely new world for the elves. Never had they considered that the magic they used daily could hide such profound "truths" behind it.
They listened, captivated. The entire kitchen fell silent, broken only by Alan's clear and steady explanations.
This peculiar "academic exchange" lasted nearly an hour.
In return, the elves not only prepared for Alan an afternoon tea far more exquisite than ordinary fare, but also, in their excitement, made a collective promise: the doors of the Hogwarts kitchens would always remain open to this "wise and respectful gentleman." They would gladly assist him with any future "magical experiments" to the best of their ability.
Alan left with a box of delicacies beautifully wrapped with magical ribbons, returning to the Gryffindor common room.
By the warm fire, Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were crowded around a small table, shouting and bickering over a game of wizard cards.
"Where've you been, Alan?" George asked without looking up, debating whether to play an Exploding Card.
"I conducted a preliminary field study on the magical system of house-elves."
Alan gently set the box of pastries on the table, then pulled a new notebook from his bag.
"My initial conclusion is that their magic is most likely a contract-based, high-authority, result-oriented form of spellcasting. I've written up a briefing on it. Care to take a look?"
He handed over a piece of parchment covered in analytical charts, logical deductions, and technical terminology.
Fred and George stared at the report—more complicated than any Potions textbook—falling once again into that peculiar silence, a mixture of awe and utter bewilderment.
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