Alan's judgment of Professor Quirrell was coldly validated within the very first week of term.
Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts had become a dual assault on the senses—smell and sound alike. From Professor Quirrell's trademark purple turban, a suffocating garlic stench poured endlessly, mixed with some unknown herbs, producing such a bizarre odor that it felt like the collective olfactory nerves of the class had gone on strike.
And his lectures—shattered and fragmented by his relentless stammering—were torture of a different kind.
"Today we w-we w-will l-learn to-to counter th-th…"
A single complete sentence demanded all of the students' patience to piece together. For Alan and his new allies, however, this merely meant long stretches of undisturbed time—perfect for their own "extracurricular research."
On Friday evening, the Gryffindor common room fire roared warmly, casting the wall tapestries in shades of orange. Most students had already gone up to their dormitories, but in one corner, a single table was still occupied—surrounded by scattered parchments and magical tools.
Alan, the Weasley twins, and Lee Jordan sat together, their faces serious.
Under Alan's tireless, logically precise guidance, Fred Weasley gripped his wand tightly, beads of sweat gathering at his temple. His brow was furrowed, lips moving silently as he struggled to control the flow of his magic.
In the past few days, he felt less like a wizard and more like a Muggle engineer, carefully tuning a delicate piece of machinery.
"Remember, Fred—the key isn't force, it's resonance." Alan's voice was steady and clear. "Think of your willpower as a plucking finger on a string. You need to find that one, unique pitch—not snap the string by brute force."
Fred drew a deep breath and tried again.
This time he released his magic cautiously, not shoving it forward in a rush, but instead coaxing it to vibrate at a precise frequency.
Failure.
Again, failure.
Only a few weak puff-puff sounds of unstable energy echoed in the air.
"Bloody hell," George muttered under his breath. "Harder than brewing a proper Calming Draught."
"Again," Alan said firmly, unwavering. "You were close just now—the frequency almost right. But at the last moment, your focus scattered."
Fred shut his eyes, shutting out every distraction. In his mind there remained only the abstract "frequency model" Alan had described.
This time—something shifted.
A faint, uncanny vibration ran up his arm into his skull. It wasn't a sound—it was information, pure and resonant, perceivable only through magic.
"Alan! I did it!" Fred's eyes snapped open, his face glowing with exhilaration. He waved his wand in excitement, and from the tip spread an invisible ripple, steady and rhythmic.
George and Lee exchanged bewildered looks—they heard nothing. But thanks to the tiny perception charms Alan had cast on them earlier, a faint, intermittent barking sound echoed vividly in their minds.
It was lively, jaunty—like a puppy frolicking with joy.
"Excellent."
For the first time, Alan allowed a flicker of approval on his face. He nodded once, expression resolute.
"Not stable yet—the waveform is shaky. But it's reached a usable standard."
Fred's chest heaved with excitement. The thrill of success flooded his mind, sweeping aside all caution—just as Alan had warned against.
He wanted something louder.
That was the allure of magic—its unpredictability. Especially intoxicating in the hands of a young wizard, flushed with victory and bursting with energy.
Eager, Fred attempted another trial, aiming for a resonance loud enough to rival the roar of a three-headed dog. But in his excitement, a single misaligned fluctuation slipped into his concentrated willpower.
The magic spiraled out of control.
The "string" he had so carefully plucked snapped taut, then surged into a frenzy of oscillation at a frequency far beyond expectation.
Bzzzzzz!
A wave burst savagely from his wand tip—inaudible to human ears, but sharp enough to compress the very air around them. George and Lee both winced, temples throbbing under the sudden pressure.
"Uh…" Fred's triumphant grin froze on his face. "I think… I messed up?"
The next second—chaos.
From beneath their feet, deep in the stone floors below, from the direction of the Potions classroom in the dungeons—came a strange series of thudding impacts.
Thud… thud… THUD!
The sound was muffled yet oddly elastic, utterly unlike stone against stone.
Then—
CRASH!
A piercing smash of shattering glass tore through the air, followed by the unmistakable splash of liquid spilling across flagstones.
"What was that?" Lee Jordan's face drained pale, his voice trembling.
Before Alan could reply, a far greater shock appeared before their eyes.
At the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, the portrait of the Fat Lady guarding the passage was suddenly blasted inward—slammed open by an unstoppable force.
The frame cracked, the canvas warped, and the Fat Lady's terrified scream caught in her throat.
And then—a swarm surged in.
Hairy creatures, each with two huge silvery eyes and four spindly legs, poured through the opening.
They didn't run—they spilled, like a tidal wave breaching a dam, like a nest of hairy beasts shaken loose, flooding madly into the warm common room.
"Mooncalves!"
Alan's pupils contracted sharply—he immediately recognized the creatures.
They were magical beasts Professor Snape kept in the Potions classroom cellar for teaching purposes—extremely shy and timid beings that only emerged from their caves to dance during the full moon.
That accidental high-frequency sound wave Fred had produced just now clearly created some strange, irresistible resonance for the Mooncalves, who were incredibly sensitive to sound.
To them, it might have sounded like heavenly music—or a doomsday alarm.
Either way, they had gone into a collective frenzy. They smashed through their thick glass tanks with their soft bodies, then followed the source of that fatal attraction—breaking through barriers all the way until they burst into Gryffindor's common room!
Within three seconds, the entire common room had descended into a fluffy chaos. Cute-looking, yes—but absolutely disastrous.
"Ahhh!"
A girl who had just stepped out of the dormitory screamed at the top of her lungs as three panicked Mooncalves clung onto the hem of her nightgown.
The creatures ran wild through the room, their enormous silver eyes gleaming in the dark. They leapt onto tables, knocking over ink bottles; they dove into the fireplace, scattering heaps of ash; they used abandoned books on the floor as springboards, sending sheets of parchment flying everywhere.
Their soft bodies thudded into walls and furniture with muffled "thump-thump" sounds.
While everyone else scrambled in panic and screamed, Alan remained astonishingly calm.
To him, the chaos quickly became data—modular, analyzable.
In less than a second, his mind palace reconstructed the erroneous sound wave in reverse.
Frequency. Waveform. Energy intensity… All parameters parsed and modeled instantly.
He drew his wand without hesitation, pointing it at the chaotic swarm of Mooncalves. His movement was precise—like something straight out of a textbook.
A "silencing charm" was built—one with a frequency exactly opposite, and with energy perfectly balanced.
Muffliato!
He didn't even speak aloud. He triggered the incantation silently in his mind.
An invisible reverse sound wave spread outward from him, colliding in space with the erroneous frequency still resonating in the air.
Sine and cosine—perfect cancellation.
The sharp, pressure-like sound filling the common room instantly dissolved into calm.
Deprived of their source of attraction, the Mooncalves froze mid-rampage. Their massive silver eyes blinked blankly in confusion.
Alan didn't stop.
With a twist of his wrist, the wand's output shifted.
A low, gentle frequency flowed out—imitating the call of a mother Mooncalf summoning her young. It carried warmth, reassurance, and safety.
The lost, fluffy creatures all turned their heads at once to look at Alan.
Panic and fear faded from their eyes, replaced with instinctive closeness and trust.
Guiding the sound with his wand, Alan walked slowly toward the stairs leading down to the cellar.
Obediently, the Mooncalves followed one by one, forming a fluffy line as they returned into the dark stairwell below.
This accident hadn't caused any real damage, but the wrecked Gryffindor common room—and the Fat Lady's portrait, now smashed—were clear signs of the storm to come.
And for the Weasley twins, this mishap left them with a deep, unforgettable lesson about "frequency"—a lesson so vivid they never wanted to experience it again.
~~----------------------
Patreon Advance Chapters:
[email protected] / Dreamer20