The bustle and commotion of the first week of school, like ripples stirred by a stone cast into a lake, had yet to fade before being forcibly calmed by Alan Scott.
Hogwarts' rhythm of life did not tame him.
On the contrary, the thousand-year-old castle's pulse began, unconsciously, to adjust itself to the beat of his own heart.
Monday.
Five o'clock in the morning.
The sky was a deep indigo, the stars not yet fully gone. In the Gryffindor common room, the fire in the hearth licked the last piece of oak, crackling faintly—the only sound in the silence.
Alan had already been seated before the fire. There was not the slightest trace of morning drowsiness about him; his back was straight. Firelight cast shifting shadows across his focused profile, illuminating the heavy tome spread across his knees—Advanced Potion-Making.
Suddenly, a rush of hurried, panicked footsteps tumbled down the spiral staircase from the girls' dormitory, breaking the dawn stillness.
A blonde girl came running down so fast that a few strands of hair clung to her sweat-dampened forehead. In her hand she clutched a timetable, crumpled from being gripped too tightly. Her face was etched with anxiety so sharp it seemed almost tangible.
Hannah Abbott, a first-year from Hufflepuff.
Her gaze darted frantically around the empty common room before fixing on the lone figure by the fire.
She was completely lost here.
"Excuse me…"
Hannah's voice trembled. Seeing Alan was like a drowning person spotting the only floating plank of wood.
"Do you… do you know how to get to the Herbology greenhouses? I—I'm about to be late!"
Alan slowly lifted his eyes from the page, utterly calm, without the faintest ripple. He closed the book, unhurried, and did not answer right away.
From his leather satchel, he drew out a roll of parchment.
It was a copy of a map, drawn with special waterproof ink—its lines precise, its labels meticulous.
He handed the map to her.
"Don't worry. You won't be late."
His voice was steady and clear, carrying a quiet power that soothed in an instant. He pointed to a red-marked route on the map.
"Start here, go up to the third floor, and cross the corridor where the Transfiguration classroom is located. Behind the third suit of armor, there's a loose stone brick. That's a hidden shortcut—it'll take you straight to the greenhouse perimeter. It'll save you at least five minutes."
His fingertip paused, then shifted to the jumbled timetable in Hannah's hand.
"Also, your schedule has a serious logical flaw."
On their way to the Great Hall, the corridors were still mostly empty. Morning light streamed through the high windows, casting long shafts of brightness where tiny motes of dust floated in the air.
Alan needed only three minutes.
"Picture your brain as a building you know best," he said, his tone almost like a lecture. His steps were neither fast nor slow, perfectly matching Hannah's.
"Each class is a room. Think about their properties."
"Charms, for instance, can be set as the living room—because it's the place you'll use most often, and the one where interaction with others is most necessary."
"Herbology is the garden—straightforward enough."
"Transfiguration is your bedroom. That's a private space, where you can unleash your imagination and reshape it however you please."
He tilted his head slightly, glancing at the girl walking beside him who was listening with rapt attention.
"Then, turn class times and locations into specific objects within these rooms. Tuesday morning's Herbology class, for instance, could be imagined as a golden apple hanging from the tree in your garden, with '9 o'clock' carved on it. Thursday afternoon's Transfiguration could be the pillow on your bed, decorated with a Transfiguration spell pattern and marked '2 o'clock.'"
"In this way, your mind is no longer forcing itself to memorize a dull list of words."
Alan stopped at the entrance to the Great Hall and concluded:
"Instead, it's like taking a leisurely stroll through your own familiar 'home.'"
This improved technique—what he called the "Memory Palace"—left Hannah Abbott utterly stunned. She stood frozen in place, as if the tangled mess of schedules in her head had been instantly combed smooth by an invisible hand. Living room, garden, bedroom… those cold class names, times, and locations had, for the first time, become vivid and orderly.
Her expression shifted: from panic, to astonishment, to pure admiration.
During breakfast, Alan presented her with another perspective—one that overturned her understanding.
"Most people believe magic is intuitive, mysterious, dependent on talent or sudden inspiration."
He cut into his sausage with precision, his movements as exact as if performing surgery.
"But in my view, that's a misconception. The essence of studying magic is efficient information processing. The faster you can analyze, decode, and reconstruct information—the clearer your logic chains—the faster you'll master any new spell."
For Hannah, this brief exchange was like stepping through the door to an entirely new world.
For Alan, it was another critical system upgrade within his Mind Palace.
A brand-new planning module quietly took shape, accompanied by a silent directive:
[Project Name: Hogwarts Interpersonal Relations Database]
His extraordinary analytical mind had instantly grasped a core truth: in a world filled with countless secrets and dangers, his grand, decades-spanning ultimate goal could never be achieved by relying on his own strength alone.
He needed a network.
A vast, reliable network of interpersonal connections that crossed house rivalries and grade boundaries.
From that moment onward, whenever his gaze swept across the shifting figures in the Great Hall, it was no longer mere observation.
He was analyzing.
He was evaluating.
Every student's name, house, personality traits, potential abilities, family background, social circle—each fragment of information was being rapidly captured, filtered, tagged, and archived, entered into the newly built database.
It was a colossal project, one that would take at least seven years to fill and perfect.
Alan laid out a clear, phased strategy for himself.
In the lower years, he would devote 90% of his focus to two core areas:
Knowledge Acquisition
Technological Development
As for the rest—noisy Quidditch matches, petty house rivalries, childish peer socializing…
In his evaluation system, these were all marked as "low-value distractions."
Not worth consideration, for now.
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