The "theft" in Filch's office ultimately cast a shadow across the entire castle.
Professor McGonagall's involvement didn't calm things down—instead, it was as though she had fanned a smoldering ember into flames. Filch's accusations were riddled with exaggerated details and malicious guesses, every word pointing toward the Weasley twins.
In the end, simply because they had "happened to be nearby at the time of the incident," Fred and George were unceremoniously given a week's detention.
And Gryffindor lost ten points.
Ten. In the massive hourglass it was just a few gems tumbling down, but at the Gryffindor table, the weight of that number crushed everyone's appetite.
Dinner was thick with gloom. The clatter of knife against plate sounded painfully loud, replacing what should have been cheerful chatter.
Angelina Johnson, the upper-year Chaser with her neat ponytail, finally lost patience with the silence. She stabbed her fork hard into a piece of steak, lifted her head, and glared across the table at the twins.
"Can't you two behave for once?"
Her voice wasn't loud, but it was like a needle piercing fragile calm.
"All the points we just worked so hard to earn back—you've lost them again in an instant!"
Fred's head shot up, his freckled face flushed red with anger.
"This wasn't our fault!"
His voice cracked with indignation, defensive and sharp. A Gryffindor civil war was about to erupt in the tense air.
At that moment, Alan set down his knife and fork.
His movements were unhurried, carrying a strange calmness, as though the atmosphere of gunpowder smoke around him had nothing to do with him. From his backpack, he drew out a thick, neatly stacked bundle of parchment.
The edges of the parchment were so perfectly aligned they looked like they had been cut with a blade, in stark contrast to the messy dining table.
"Everyone."
Alan slid the bundle toward those nearest to him. His voice was steady but carried a weight that could not be ignored, instantly pulling every eye toward him.
"These are my compiled 'Logical Key Points Outlines' for History of Magic and Defense Against the Dark Arts—up to midterms."
His gaze swept over Fred, over Angelina, and finally over the angry, sullen faces at the table.
"I think, rather than arguing over points we can't get back, we should focus on how to handle the academic pressure that's about to come crashing down on us."
Lee Jordan was the first to grab a sheet. He thought it would be ordinary notes, but the moment he opened it, his breath caught.
It wasn't paragraphs of text.
It was a massive, meticulously structured tree diagram.
The trunk, in bold, read: "Goblin Rebellions (1100–1750)." Branching off were headings like "Economic Factors," "Ministry of Magic Legislation," "Roots of Racial Discrimination," and "Key Battle Analyses." From each branch stretched finer networks, like veins of a leaf, linking every knowledge point and every detail Professor Binns might overlook, all with keywords and arrows.
The most chilling detail was the red ink annotations at certain nodes, where Alan had marked "Corrective Notes from Constance" or "Supplementary Logic Missed in Sharlow's Lecture."
This wasn't just top-student notes.
It was a complete dismantling of the teaching system.
The parchment was passed rapidly from hand to hand, each sheet provoking hushed gasps of awe. Complaints about the twins were forgotten, replaced by a heavier, sharper anxiety—academic anxiety.
"My god… so the difference between Red Caps and Goblins is their habitat and their dependence on blood…"
"The true root cause of the Goblin Rebellions wasn't greed, but the systemic deprivation by wizarding society of all property rights for non-human intelligent beings…"
The mood at the Gryffindor table shifted completely. A quarrel on the verge of breaking out had been deftly dissolved by Alan with surgical precision. He hadn't mediated, hadn't taken sides—he had simply dropped a bigger, unavoidable "enemy" before them: schoolwork.
Later that night, the common room fire burned bright.
Alan had just finished his own reading schedule when several first-years surrounded him. Each clutched a half-charred matchstick or twig, faces etched with the same frustration and misery.
"Alan, how do you do it?"
A round-faced boy, always nervous, spoke first. The twig in his hand had been bent by his silent efforts, and he looked even more exhausted than the wood itself.
"It feels like my matchstick is a stone!"
Neville Longbottom. In Alan's Mind Palace, the name was linked with two tags: Herbology Talent and Charms Disaster.
Alan's eyes fell on the bent twig. In his vision, it wasn't just a piece of wood—it was a complex system of internal stresses.
He thought for a moment, then picked up a similar curved stick from the firewood basket by the hearth.
"Transfiguration isn't just about willpower. It's about understanding structural balance."
His voice was quiet, but it made the group instinctively hold their breath.
Alan's fingers traced along the curved twig, like he was caressing a piece of art. They finally stopped at a subtle, almost invisible point.
"Look. Any irregular object has a 'stress balance point.' At that spot, all internal forces cancel out—that's the key to why it holds its current form."
His explanation went far beyond their conception of magic. No mystic incantations, no esoteric theories—more like a Muggle physics lesson.
"What you need to do isn't to force its shape with sheer will. That only tangles its stress structure further, making it resist your magic even more."
Alan's gaze shifted to Neville.
"Instead, treat your magic like a lever. Inject it precisely into this balance point."
He paused, then added in simpler words:
"And then gently… pry it."
As he spoke, he lifted his wand.
A tiny, nearly invisible light formed at the tip, landing unerringly on the point he'd just identified.
No dazzling flashes, no elaborate chant.
The curved twig shivered, as though a locked mechanism had been undone.
With a faint glow, its fibers stretched, realigned, and straightened. A subtle crackling sound, like wood settling, rang out. Before their eyes, it uncurled into a smooth, straight matchstick.
The light faded.
A perfectly even, polished match rested quietly in Alan's palm.
This "scientific magic"—explaining Transfiguration through the principle of levers—left the young students utterly dumbfounded.
Neville Longbottom's mouth hung open. He stared from Alan's flawless matchstick to his own battered twig, and for the very first time, a spark lit in his eyes: So that's how it works.
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