A week slipped away like sand through fingers.
For the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan, it was seven days of pure torment. Every spare moment outside class was crammed full of Alan's high-intensity training regimen. From the precision of incantation syllables, to the trajectory of their wand movements, to the explosive burst of magic at the moment of casting—every detail was dissected, analyzed, then reconstructed.
"Protego!"
"Expelliarmus!"
The transition between the two spells, which at first stumbled along at over five seconds, had now been forced down to under two.
Inside Alan's mind palace, the evaluation module for their coordinated combat abilities refreshed silently.
[Risk level assessment complete.]
[Adjusted from 'High' to 'Controllable'.]
The plan could proceed.
On Saturday morning, before the first pale rays of dawn pierced the stained-glass windows of Gryffindor Tower, four shadowy figures slipped through the common room like ghosts. They stopped before the hunchbacked stone statue of the one-eyed witch.
Alan's lips moved soundlessly, uttering a crisp syllable:
"Dissendium."
Creak—
With a dull grinding, the stone witch shifted aside, revealing a gaping black hole. Inside was darkness so pure it devoured every trace of light. Not a photon registered on the retina. Even the air carried a damp, moldy staleness of something long sealed away.
Fred and George instantly raised their wands.
"Lumos!"
Twin spheres of light struggled to life at their wand tips. But the unstable magic made their edges twitch and flicker, swelling and dimming erratically. Their shadows writhed and stretched grotesquely across the stone walls, claw-like specters that made the already eerie passage even more unsettling.
Alan's brow furrowed ever so slightly.
He shook his head, offering no criticism, and instead slipped a hand into his robe pocket.
When he drew it out again, a thumb-sized crystal gleamed between his fingers.
It was a product of his introductory alchemy experiments over the summer: an ordinary crystal purified through several complex processes until flawless, then sealed with a precisely structured enchantment at its core, locking in a tiny, stable source of light.
A thread of magic flowed into it.
The crystal flared to life the next instant.
Its glow wasn't the harsh, aggressive brightness of a spell. Instead, it was steady, clear, and gentle—like daylight itself. The radiance carried a faint warmth, illuminating every slick stone, every shadowed corner of the passage with comforting clarity.
"Whoa!"
Fred and George instantly let their unstable light spheres die out.
Lee Jordan's mouth dropped into a perfect O.
Once again, Alan had shattered their understanding of what was possible outside the Hogwarts curriculum with one of his mysterious "high-tech" contraptions.
At the tunnel's end lay the storage cellar of Honeydukes. The four held their breath as they eased open the hidden trapdoor, slipping between stacks of candy crates, until they finally emerged—successfully arriving in Hogsmeade.
The sight of the village instantly drove away the tunnel's tension.
Bustling and vibrant.
The air was rich with the scent of food, laughter ringing through the streets. Upperclassmen strolled in groups, arms slung over each other's shoulders, their faces glowing with the easy joy of freedom from the castle's walls.
Following Alan's carefully mapped-out route, their first stop was the most famous place in the village—the Three Broomsticks Inn.
Warm air greeted them the moment they stepped inside, thick with the sweet aroma of butterbeer, the savory scent of roasting meat, and the crackling of logs in the fireplace. The heavy wooden door muffled the noise from within, only for it to burst out in full force the instant they entered.
Luck was on their side. A window seat for four had just been vacated.
Soon after, a graceful, still-charming witch approached. Her smile was practiced and warm, but when her eyes swept across their obviously youthful faces, a flash of genuine surprise flickered through.
It was none other than Madam Rosmerta, the owner of the bar.
"Merlin's beard—how on earth did you get here?"
Her voice carried a velvety curiosity.
"This year's Hogsmeade weekends aren't open to first-years."
"I'm rather interested in the castle's architecture," Alan replied evenly, his expression unchanging, his tone as calm as if he were stating a fact of nature. "I just happened to discover a ventilation duct."
He kept steady eye contact with Madam Rosmerta as he spoke.
She clearly didn't buy the excuse. The curiosity in her eyes didn't wane, but she didn't press either. With a knowing adult's smile, she simply shook her head. Some secrets were better left unpursued.
"Four butterbeers, please!" Fred burst out, unable to contain his excitement any longer.
But in that very moment, Alan did something that froze the atmosphere. His gaze passed over Fred, locking instead with precise focus onto Madam Rosmerta.
When he spoke, it was in the earnest tone of someone posing a scholarly question.
"Excuse me, Madam.
"I've noticed that the cream froth on your butterbeer lasts an unusually long time without collapsing.
"May I ask—do you stabilize the foam the way Advanced Potion-Making suggests? By adding something like a frog-egg stabilizer or another magical additive?"
He paused briefly, letting the question settle—then offered a second hypothesis.
"Or is it achieved through some kind of high-frequency, physical magical stirring method that alters the molecular structure of the cream itself?"
The bar's clamor seemed to choke, as if seized by an invisible hand.
Time froze for a second.
The color drained from Fred and George's faces at alarming speed. Shame and horror tangled in their expressions. George even shrank back instinctively, wishing he could disappear into the crack between the chair and the wall.
Madam Rosmerta's professional smile faltered.
Her brows arched, her lips parted, and for five long seconds she just stared, her mind clearly straining to process this wildly out-of-syllabus question.
And then—without warning—
"Ha ha ha ha!"
She burst into a peal of bright, ringing laughter. It sliced straight through the noise of the bar, drawing curious glances from nearby tables.
"Hahaha! You little rascal—you're delightful!"
She laughed so hard she bent over, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. She dabbed them away with a handkerchief.
"I've been serving butterbeer here for decades, and you're the first—the very first student to ever ask me about my foam!"
As her laughter faded, her eyes on Alan brimmed with warmth and fond amusement.
She didn't answer his question. Instead, she turned on her heel, went to the bar, and soon returned carrying a tray.
Four steaming mugs of butterbeer landed on the table, each crowned with a towering swirl of flawless, creamy froth that glowed with sweet temptation.
"Child," Madam Rosmerta said, giving Alan a conspiratorial wink, her voice still laced with laughter,
"for that question—today's drinks are on the house!"
~~----------------------
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