The confrontation with Snape had stirred neither fear nor anger in Alan. To him, it was more like a calm system evaluation. Snape's existence was akin to a high-difficulty level revealed ahead of time—an openly hostile, unpredictable environmental variable. That encounter had instantly stamped a glaring red "High Risk" warning across the original model of the "Hogwarts Project" within Alan's mind palace.
The conclusion was clear.
Superiority in intellect and access to extra information alone would not suffice to build a safe barrier. He needed true, overwhelming power.
In the first week of term, Hogwarts was a maze of chaos and wonder for new students. While his peers argued endlessly over classroom locations, or screamed in despair on the shifting staircases, Alan's movements followed an entirely different—and almost coldly precise—pattern.
He was not wandering. He was mapping.
His steps became measuring sticks of distance. His gaze, a protractor recording angles. Every corridor from the first to third floors, every blind corner of sight, the time-dependent sequences of the main staircases' shifts, even which flagstone groaned underfoot—all of it was recorded, converted into pure data, and stored in the invisible palace of his mind.
What lay behind a hanging tapestry: shortcut or storage room?
Which corridor did Peeves most often haunt, unleashing his indiscriminate assaults?
What were Filch and Mrs. Norris's fixed patrol routes, and how often did they vary within certain probability ranges?
What other students chalked up to luck, Alan translated into calculable, avoidable variables.
A week later, once all the data had been processed, a finished product emerged. Alan named it the "Optimized Hogwarts Pathway Map."
It was no mere floor guide. On the parchment, drawn in several colors of enchanted ink, dense yet orderly routes crisscrossed the surface. Black lines marked standard routes, red indicated the shortest shortcuts, and blue highlighted secret passages that required specific passwords or gestures to access.
Even more impressive, the map was dotted with tiny dynamic runes. A flickering skull-face denoted Peeves's common ambush zones, while paw prints marked Filch's hotspots. These runes shifted subtly with time, reflecting predictable movement patterns.
This was no map—it was a dynamic, interactive decision system.
Friday at lunch, the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall simulated a sunny afternoon sky, while the long tables brimmed with food. Students' chatter melded into a constant buzzing backdrop.
Alan cut his steak quietly, his pace and rhythm calculated for optimal nutrient intake and digestion efficiency.
At that moment, a figure stumbled to a halt beside him.
It was a Gryffindor first-year, arms overloaded with teetering books and a conspicuously out-of-place Muggle camera hanging from his neck. His messy hair and nearly tearful expression radiated panic.
Colin Creevey.
Alan's mental database pulled up the entry instantly: Muggle-born, extremely enthusiastic, possessed a feverish curiosity about every aspect of the wizarding world.
"Hey—you're Alan Scott, right?"
Colin's voice wavered with uncertainty, but his eyes shone with hope. He had clearly recognized Alan.
"I heard about you! On the train, and in Charms class—Professor Flitwick gave you twenty points! Merlin, you're practically our year's idol!"
Alan paused, set down his knife and fork, dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin, and looked up. No wasted words—just a calm nod.
The brief excitement drained from Colin's face almost at once, replaced by a desperate urge to vent. Words tumbled out like bullets from a machine gun.
"But Hogwarts is terrifying! It's too big! My next class is Potions—Professor Snape's class! It's in the dungeons, but I don't even know which way the door opens down there! And Astronomy—why would they build the classroom at the top of the tallest tower? Every time I climb up, my legs stop working! I feel like I spend half my life lost in this castle, running around like a headless chicken!"
His complaints perfectly captured the plight of nearly every first-year.
Alan looked at him—at the faint redness around his eyes from anxiety, and at the camera hanging from his neck, the symbol of his Muggle upbringing. In his mind palace, a new directive was triggered.
Share the map.
Cost: a minor expenditure of magic for a Copying Charm.
Gains: (1) Test the model's universality in another user's hands. (2) Gain a potential, highly loyal information node. (3) Begin establishing an image of "efficiency."
Risk Assessment: nearly zero.
Decision: confirmed.
He drew from his bag the parchment map that had condensed a week of painstaking effort.
"I think this might help you."
Alan's voice was steady, devoid of emotion. He pulled out his wand and pointed it at the parchment.
"Geminio."
His quiet incantation released a soft white glow from the wandtip, washing evenly over the map. Within the light, every line, every symbol, every color of the original was replicated with perfect clarity. Without a trace of blur or distortion, an identical map separated cleanly from the first.
A flawless Copying Charm.
Alan handed the duplicate to Colin.
Colin Creevey took the still-warm parchment in a daze, at first thinking it was merely a detailed, well-drawn map.
But the instant his eyes fell upon it, his breath caught.
What did he see?
A crimson-marked route starting from the Gryffindor common room—not toward the main staircase, but toward the third-floor corridor's end, where a tapestry depicted Barnabas the Barmy being clubbed by trolls. The line passed through the tapestry into a hidden spiral staircase that led directly to the dungeons.
In the corner of the map, there was even a specially tailored route just for him, connecting the Potions classroom to the Astronomy Tower. It cleverly exploited two staircase-shift intervals, and even highlighted an armored statue that would let him slip through faster if offered a small biscuit.
This… this map even had his name on it! Between dormitory and classrooms, the optimal path combination had already been preset.
"Th-this… this is…"
Colin's hands shook. The flood of information overwhelmed him, leaving him too excited to form proper words.
"An optimized path model."
Alan explained calmly, as if describing a routine homework assignment.
"Following this map, you can design the most efficient route for your daily schedule. Calculations show you'll save at least fifteen minutes of travel time each day compared to others. In addition, you can avoid over ninety percent of pointless encounters with Peeves and Filch."
Colin clutched the parchment tightly, as though it weren't paper but a prophecy granting entry to a new world. He lifted his head, eyes shining with fervent gratitude and near-reverence as he gazed at Alan.
"Alan—you… you're a genius!"
His voice finally returned, though it cracked from excitement.
"This is—it's a survival guide for first-years! The Bible of Hogwarts! Thank you—thank you so much!"
Alan had not sought to publicize the gesture.
But knowledge and tools carried their own viral momentum.
Before long, a parchment titled "Alan's Optimized Hogwarts Pathway Map" was quietly circulating among first-years, passed around like a semi-secret treasure.
Each new recipient reacted the same as Colin Creevey—awestruck by its detail, its airtight logic, and its immediate effectiveness.
And so, within the very first week of term, the name Alan Scott imprinted itself in the minds of all the new students—not merely as a "charms prodigy," but as something far more profound.
He had transplanted the distant Muggle-world principle of efficiency above all into the ancient magical world, in a manner both undeniable and strikingly practical. This dimension-breaking way of thinking sparked not only wonder, but also a genuine, indescribable respect.
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