Alan lowered his head again, his gaze returning to the intricate world of his spell programming.
As though what had just happened was nothing more than fixing a trivial bug in a line of code.
By the fourth week of term, Hogwarts' morning light still fell faithfully upon the castle's ancient stone walls—yet it could not dispel the heavy gloom hanging over three Gryffindors.
The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan had finally paid the price for weeks of "midnight explorations."
On Tuesday morning, the three of them trailed behind Alan as if their bones had been sucked out, staggering toward Greenhouse One. Each step was like dragging invisible weights, their eyelids so heavy they could barely keep them open.
"I swear, I'll never fall asleep in Professor Binns' class again," Lee Jordan yawned so wide his jaw nearly dislocated, his voice weak as though recovering from a hangover.
"His homework is worse than a Dementor's Kiss—it drains your sleep, and your soul."
They were walking along an outdoor corridor linking the Entrance Hall to the greenhouses.
On one side, the chill morning breeze swept past, and a row of medieval suits of armor stood in silence. In the slanting light, they cast long, twisted shadows across the flagstones.
Alan walked in front.
His steps were steady, his breathing calm—no different from any other first-year hurrying to class.
But inside his skull, an invisible construct—his Mind Palace—was running with astonishing efficiency. Every detail of the environment was being recorded and analyzed: light intensity, temperature, air currents, magical residue… all of it broken down instantly into streams of raw data.
A crimson "risk alert model" built itself within his awareness.
Warning: twelve meters ahead, inside the third suit of armor—detected high-level chaotic magic fluctuations.
The data refreshed.
Target identified: Peeves the Poltergeist.
Action prediction: 93.7% probability he is holding a Dungbomb. Attack will commence once targets are within five meters. Method: throw. Projectile trajectory… calculation complete.
Alan's stride did not falter.
Not a flicker of expression crossed his face.
He did not speak, nor did he warn the three unfortunate Gryffindors behind him. Chaos could not be stopped—not when its carrier was Peeves.
Instead, as he passed a particular flagstone before the targeted armor, he casually ground his toe against the slick surface.
A magical ripple so faint it was nearly imperceptible spread outward—like a drop of water disappearing into the sea.
Silencing Charm.
A branch of Transfiguration: microscopic manipulation.
A spell as simple as possible—Lubrication Charm—applied with surgical precision. It acted on the dewdamp flagstone, reducing its surface friction coefficient to a critical threshold.
The very next second, chaos erupted.
"Here's a little early-morning surprise for you lot!"
Peeves' shrill, grating laugh split the air as his spectral form burst from the armor, holding aloft a sphere sloshing with thick green liquid.
The stench was already overpowering, foul enough to curdle the air.
He aimed straight for Alan at the front.
But as Peeves landed—his foot came down squarely on the exact flagstone Alan had tampered with.
"Oi—!"
A sickening, uncontrollable slipperiness surged beneath him, as if he had stepped onto an ice rink smeared with grease.
All balance, all his vaunted aerial tricks—obliterated by the cold logic of physics.
Peeves pitched backward in a ludicrous, flailing sprawl.
The Dungbomb he had raised high for extra throwing force traced a perfect, inevitable parabola… right back onto himself.
Splatt!
A nauseating, wet crack echoed through the corridor.
Viscous green slime exploded, splattering across Peeves' translucent head like a grotesque crown—or a hat made of sludge.
The ooze trickled down his ghostly cheeks, clinging to his twisted, horrified features.
Alan and his three companions remained untouched.
They didn't even break stride as they walked calmly past the shrieking, sputtering poltergeist who was now flailing helplessly in his own mess.
"Whoa—he… he slipped on his own?"
Lee Jordan finally snapped out of his stupor, gawking with wide eyes at the scene behind them.
"Our luck is insane!"
"No. That wasn't luck."
Alan corrected him evenly, as if describing a basic law of nature.
"I simply anticipated his move in advance—and introduced a minor logical disturbance beneath his feet."
He stopped, meeting the puzzled gazes of his friends. In his deep eyes, their bewilderment reflected back.
Calmly, he explained—teaching them a principle that was also his creed:
"Remember this. When facing chaos, the best method is never to defend passively.
It is to use logic—guide it—and let it destroy itself."
~~----------------------
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