The Gryffindor first-years' very first Herbology lesson took place in a greenhouse where the air was warm and damp, filled with the earthy tang of freshly turned soil and the strange fragrances of hundreds of magical plants—many of which none of them had ever even heard of before.
Professor Sprout stood in the center of the class. A short, stout witch with rosy cheeks and an ever-cheerful smile, she always had dirt under her fingernails. Her infectious enthusiasm quickly won the hearts of the new students.
"Today, we'll be meeting a very interesting little friend."
Her voice was both gentle and resonant as she gestured toward a row of unassuming flowerpots.
Inside them grew plants that looked remarkably like miniature morning glories, their pale violet petals delicate and dewy.
"This plant is called Echo Grass."
Professor Sprout tapped the side of one clay pot with the tip of her wand.
Ding.
A faint, crisp chime rang out.
The students in the greenhouse all held their breath, watching the quiet little flower. One second passed. Then two. Just as patience began to fray, something changed.
The petals of the Echo Grass quivered, and from deep within the bloom burst forth a clear, crystalline ding! The sound was magnified several times over, as sharp and ringing as a bell struck in each student's ear.
"Woooah!"
A collective murmur of amazement rippled through the group.
"Echo Grass can faithfully mimic and amplify sounds it has heard around it," Professor Sprout explained, clearly delighted with their reaction. "Its imitation is absolutely accurate, but it usually comes with a one- to two-minute delay."
Her words fell like boulders into the minds of two particular students, stirring tidal waves.
Fred Weasley's eyes widened as his pupils shrank, and he elbowed his twin brother so hard George nearly doubled over. George's expression mirrored Fred's exactly—an unspoken frenzy lighting both their faces.
This was… a gift from heaven!
Later, on the stone path back to the castle, Fred could no longer contain himself. He slung an arm around George's shoulder, lowering his voice though it still trembled with excitement.
"Oi, George—you heard that, right?"
His freckles seemed to dance as he grinned furiously.
"This is tailor-made for Filch!"
"All we need to do is get our hands on a few Echo Grass plants, sneak them into his office when he's not around…"
George immediately picked up the idea, his brain whirring. His voice was laced with malicious glee.
"…and when he's fast asleep, snoring away—two minutes later…"
"The Echo Grass will blast his snores back at him at full volume!" Fred finished.
"Waking him up with his own noise—over and over again!"
The image was so vivid the twins doubled over laughing, imagining Filch startling awake to his own echoed snoring, dazed and searching, only to nod off again—then jolted awake once more, trapped in a maddening cycle.
They laughed so hard they nearly couldn't breathe.
"A very mediocre idea."
The voice was calm, cold, and so ill-timed it struck like a bucket of ice water—snuffing out their fiery enthusiasm in an instant.
Alan Scott.
The twins froze mid-laugh, as if someone had hit pause.
"What?" Fred's face fell.
"Your plan overlooks several critical logical flaws."
Alan's voice was steady, his eyes utterly calm. In his Mind Palace, their crude prank had already been simulated, tested, and rejected a dozen times over.
"First—delay."
He raised one finger.
"Professor Sprout made it clear: the imitation has a one- to two-minute lag. Filch only needs to compare the timing of his snores with the echo to realize it isn't natural, but caused by something mimicking the sound."
"Second—environment."
He raised another finger.
"In his office, the only consistent sounds come from him and his cat. The moment an anomaly appears, he'll investigate. A strange plant won't go unnoticed in that small room. At best, your prank would work once. Then he'd toss the poor Echo Grass into the fire."
Fred and George were struck silent.
Their so-called brilliant plan, dismantled piece by piece, looked crude and childish under Alan's analysis.
Seeing the unwillingness on their faces, Alan sighed almost inaudibly, as though lamenting their still-undeveloped sense of mischief.
"However… if you adjust your thinking just slightly, you might achieve something far better—or rather, more advanced."
From within his robes, he drew out a roll of parchment and a quill, his movements deliberate and unhurried.
"We can modify the Echo Grass's trigger mechanism."
With smooth, precise strokes, he sketched a simple circuit diagram composed of several runic symbols.
"We can design a miniature, frequency-based magical circuit and attach it to the plant's roots. That way, it won't passively mimic any random noise."
"Instead, it would only activate when it detects a specific frequency."
Alan looked up, locking eyes with the twins, who were now completely hooked. His gaze gleamed with a mix of curiosity and wicked humor—the eyes of a hunter who calculated everything.
"For example… we could set the trigger frequency to match the meow of Filch's cat—Mrs. Norris."
"And the pre-recorded sound…"
He paused deliberately, savoring their anticipation.
"…a large dog's deep, threatening growl."
The moment the words left his mouth, the air itself seemed to freeze.
Fred and George's eyes widened, their breath catching.
Alan's lips curved into a faint, almost cruel smile as he painted them a picture in his calm, detached tone:
"Picture it. Midnight. Silence. Mrs. Norris lets out a soft, innocent meow.
The next second, from the same corner—WOOF! A window-rattling bark.
"Filch will think his cat is under attack by an invisible dog. He'll tear the place apart, but find nothing.
"And when he sits back down, still shaken, Mrs. Norris meows again… WOOF!
"He'll spiral into endless chaos and paranoia—doubting his cat, his sanity, even reality itself. That… is a true prank. An art form."
The upgraded scheme unfurled before the Weasley twins like an entirely new world.
Their eyes shone; their blood roared in their veins.
At that moment, looking at Alan's calm face, they shared the same thought:
This bloke is a devil born for mischief.
Back in the dormitory, silence reigned. The candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting restless shadows.
Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were still stunned, their minds nearly shut down after witnessing such a ruthless dissection of magical principles.
Finally, Fred broke the silence. His eyes blazed anew—this time with a feverish mix of awe and mischief. He rubbed his hands together, his knuckles cracking, his voice trembling with excitement.
"A brilliant plan!"
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