The strange aura woven around Alan from his peculiar "Muggle theories" seemed even more mysterious under the glow of the Gryffindor common room's fireplace. Fred and George Weasley, along with Lee Jordan, glanced at each other, their minds still echoing with unheard-of terms like "information asymmetry" and "optimal solution." Every word Alan spoke was familiar to them, yet strung together, they felt more incomprehensible than the most complex runes of Ancient Magic.
Alan's training had, indeed, produced immediate results.
Although silent casting was still a mountain far beyond the reach of first-years, the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan had made astounding progress in the speed of chaining spells together. What once required stumbling through two complete incantations was now compressed into one nearly continuous motion.
Of course, such leaps forward inevitably came with a few growing pains.
On Wednesday's Charms class, the atmosphere was as lighthearted as ever. The tiny Professor Flitwick stood atop a stack of books, his sharp, squeaky voice enthusiastically explaining the intricacies of the Levitation Charm.
Fred sat in the back row, but his thoughts had long since drifted into the clouds.
He felt the tingle of magical energy surging at his fingertips—that yearning for power, that longing for the world of "spell combinations" Alan had described. He couldn't resist any longer. Concealing his wand under the desk, he gave a subtle flick of his wrist and began secretly practicing the sequence Alan had named the "basic offense-defense switch."
Protego.Expelliarmus.
He focused with all his might, trying to shorten the interval between the two spells to the absolute minimum.
But between theory and practice lies a gulf known as "accidents." The very moment he completed the second incantation, perhaps his wrist angled slightly wrong, perhaps his concentration faltered—a scarlet streak of light suddenly shot out from beneath the desk.
"Expelliarmus!"
The Disarming Charm traced a flawless straight line—not toward the wall he had envisioned, but straight into the row ahead.
A Hufflepuff student, absorbed in taking notes, felt his wrist jolt as his hefty Standard Book of Spells flew from his hand, yanked up into the air by an invisible force.
At this point, it should have been nothing more than a minor classroom disruption.
But fate always seems to favor a touch of theatrical coincidence.
The book traced an elegant arc through the air, as though calculated to perfection, and landed squarely on the head of Peeves the poltergeist—who had just popped out of the blackboard, ready to pelt students with chalk.
Smack!
A sharp, crisp thud.
The classroom froze for a heartbeat.
The next instant, Peeves's trademark, eardrum-piercing screech exploded through the room.
"AAAAARGH! MY HEAD! Someone tried to assassinate the noble, handsome Peeeeeeeves!"
And with that, chaos erupted. Peeves went berserk, careening around the classroom, overturning inkwells and scattering rolls of parchment everywhere.
In the end, only after exhausting himself thoroughly did Professor Flitwick manage to coax the poltergeist away, and with a weary expression, identified the culprit. Fred Weasley thus earned another detention.
That same evening, he was stuck with Argus Filch, the caretaker, cleaning out his rancid-smelling storeroom crammed with confiscated contraband.
By the time the castle's clock struck midnight, Fred dragged his aching arm—nearly falling off at the shoulder—and his exhausted body back to Gryffindor Tower. He collapsed into the armchair opposite Alan, sinking deep into the cushions.
"Merlin's beard…"
His voice was weak, utterly drained as if he had just survived a near-death ordeal.
"I swear, I never want to set foot in that bloody place ever again!"
He began pouring out his misery to Alan, every word dripping with bitterness.
"Filch is a sadist! A complete, thoroughbred sadist! He actually made me sort hundreds of confiscated Dungbombs—by color and by size! Can you imagine? There were light brown ones, dark brown ones, and even some disgusting, eerie-looking green ones! Then he had me line them all up in order of diameter, from largest to smallest!"
Hearing this, George and Lee Jordan leaned in, their faces twisted between sympathy and barely-suppressed laughter.
Fred grumbled on for a while, then suddenly leaned forward, his exhaustion giving way to that signature Weasley curiosity.
"But—I found something interesting."
His voice dropped, low and secretive.
"At the very back of the storeroom, hidden behind a pile of rusty armor, there's this massive cabinet. Pitch black—the kind of black that swallows the light around it. The doors are etched with strange runes I couldn't understand. When I touched them, they were ice-cold."
He gestured with his hands to show its size, his eyes glittering.
"Filch keeps all the things he considers 'the most amusing and the most dangerous' locked inside that cabinet. I saw him toss in a biting frisbee and a screaming yo-yo. While locking it up, he kept muttering to himself about it being 'highly dangerous, strictly off-limits.'"
The fingers turning Alan's book pages paused ever so slightly.
A tiny movement—yet enough to betray his full attention.
A cabinet engraved with special runes, used to store confiscated dangerous items. Argus Filch, the caretaker.
Within Alan's mind palace, streams of information instantly converged and collided. Keywords were rapidly extracted: [Filch], [Confiscated Items], [Dangerous], [Runed Cabinet]. His internal database began high-speed retrieval, cross-referencing with the core archive in his memory labeled "The Original Work."
A hazy fragment of recollection was quickly locked onto, magnified, sharpened—an empty piece of parchment confiscated by Filch, seemingly useless.
The Marauder's Map.
Alan's breathing didn't falter in the slightest. His gaze remained calmly fixed on the book before him.
"I see."
He simply nodded faintly, as though he had heard nothing more than a trivial school anecdote.
But within the depths of his mind palace, a brand-new project was created—flagged as top priority.
[Hogwarts Exploration Project – Side Mission: The Marauders' Legacy]
[Objective: The Marauder's Map]
[Current Location: Filch's Office, Runed Cabinet]
[Acquisition Difficulty: Moderately High]
[Plan of Action: Pending]
A new side quest had begun—one aimed at securing a highly valuable magical artifact.
Just then, a soft tapping sounded against the dormitory window.
Tap, tap, tap.
A handsome owl from Ravenclaw was pecking gently at the glass. It folded its wings and slipped a letter through the gap, dropping it neatly onto Alan's bedside table.
It was Penelope Clearwater's reply.
The parchment bore elegant handwriting. In addition to expressing her gratitude once again for the study advice Alan had given her over the summer, the envelope also contained a surprisingly weighty little pouch.
Alan untied the drawstring and emptied the contents into his palm.
Twenty gleaming Galleons spilled out, their brilliance dazzling under the candlelight.
"What the…"
Lee Jordan leaned closer in awe, his face nearly pressed against the pile of gold.
"Oh, just a small favor I did for her during the holidays. This is her thank-you gift."
Alan's tone was calm, as if commenting on the weather. He slipped the pouch back into his pocket with effortless ease.
Yet this casual motion sent shockwaves through the hearts of the twins.
"A small favor?"
"Worth twenty Galleons?!"
Fred and George's voices shot up nearly an octave, their eyes bulging like two brass gongs. Even with all their painstaking effort inventing prank products and scheming for mischief, their combined earnings had never once exceeded five Galleons at a time.
Twenty Galleons—for them, it was an unimaginable fortune.
The way they looked at Alan changed completely. In their eyes burned shock, puzzlement, and a brand-new kind of curiosity so intense it was almost tangible.
Alan closed his book with a soft thump, watching their exaggerated reactions. His voice carried the tone of one revealing some ultimate secret, though in truth it was a line borrowed from a business text of his past life.
"It's really quite simple."
His words echoed in the quiet dormitory.
"I merely took advantage of the 'information asymmetry' between us—provided her with an 'optimal solution' she couldn't have obtained on her own—and in doing so, created a little value. Nothing more."
This peculiar explanation, steeped in the flavor of "Muggle theory," struck Fred, George, and Lee Jordan like a baffling incantation.
They understood every word individually, yet strung together, it became utterly incomprehensible.
To them, Alan now seemed shrouded in a deeper, more unfathomable aura than ever before.
~~----------------------
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