The midnight bell had yet to toll, but the corridors of Hogwarts had already sunk into a silence as deep as the sea.
The walk from the Astronomy Tower back to the Gryffindor common room felt especially long tonight. Alan's discussion with Professor Sinistra about the "Cosmological Model of the Wizarding World" had stretched well beyond class, carrying on under the starry sky. Their intense and focused clash of ideas had unknowingly consumed half an hour.
The result: all four of them were severely late.
And misfortune always bares its fangs when one is least on guard.
Just as they reached the second floor, about to turn toward the moving staircase, a dim, wavering oil lamp swayed at the far end of the corridor. A hunched figure carrying the lamp cast a long, twisted shadow in the flickering light.
It was Argus Filch, the caretaker.
He was on his final patrol before curfew. His bitter, wrinkled face was filled with gloom and agitation. One "important diary," which he was convinced the Weasley twins had stolen, had yet to be recovered. The incident had ignited every ounce of nameless fury in his chest, and now he was desperate for somewhere to vent it.
And now—he had found prey.
Four Gryffindor lions, wandering the halls after curfew.
Filch's deeply furrowed face split into a malicious, twisted grin.
"Well, well. The Weasley vermin—and company!"
His rasping voice, like sandpaper scraping on stone, bellowed through the empty corridor, disturbing a few disgruntled mutters from portraits that had been dozing.
"Out of bed after hours, are you? Fancy a taste of hanging upside down from the ceiling?"
His eyes, sticky as tentacles, latched onto Fred and George first.
"You two," he jabbed a knobby finger at them, "tomorrow night, to the Trophy Room. Every single cup and shield in there had better be polished until I can see every freckle on your faces!"
Then his cloudy eyes slid slowly, inevitably, toward Alan.
Of the four rule-breakers, Alan looked the calmest, the most composed. To Filch's suspicious mind, that very look of "innocence" instantly became the highest level of guilt.
"As for you, Scott…"
Filch's smile turned cold and vicious, his breath hissing through his teeth.
"Professor McGonagall values you. I wouldn't dare punish you myself."
He deliberately drew out his words, savoring the twisted pleasure of passing judgment.
"But I hear Professor Snape is quite… impressed with you. Come with me. I'm sure he'd be delighted to have a deep discussion with you on the timeless importance of—following school rules."
Killing with a borrowed knife.
It was the perfect scheme: a way to wash his hands of responsibility while also exacting cruel satisfaction. To toss this "prodigy" McGonagall favored straight into the clutches of the Potions Master, infamous for his spite and favoritism—there was no sweeter revenge.
Yet Alan betrayed not the slightest hint of panic.
As Filch's bony hand seized his arm and dragged him toward the cold dungeons, Alan's mind palace was already running at full speed.
[Plan One: Argue with reason. Explain the academic discussion that caused the delay. Success rate: below 5%. Target: Snape. His prejudice against Gryffindor renders all explanations invalid.]
[Plan Two: Show weakness, beg forgiveness. Success rate: 0%. Will only heighten the sadistic pleasure of the target and invite harsher humiliation.]
Countless routes flashed, simulated, then discarded. In the end, only one plan remained, marked: High Risk – High Reward.
The dungeon air was damp and clammy, the stone walls sweating moisture. Filch shoved open the door to the Potions office, releasing a dense wave of air laced with the mingled fumes of dozens of pungent ingredients and mineral powders.
Snape sat behind his broad desk. The candlelight illuminated only half his face, while the other half dissolved into the heavy shadows, leaving behind nothing but a pale, cold outline.
He looked up. His pitch-black, lifeless eyes locked instantly on Alan, sharp as a predator observing a mouse that had blundered into a trap.
"Alan."
His trademark voice, as though soaked in grease, oozed through the still office, each syllable sticky and unsettling.
"It seems that overactive brain of yours has yet to grasp the most basic of lessons—such as being punctual. Or going to bed on time."
He leaned forward slightly, clearly prepared to savor the boy's inevitable panic before shredding this so-called "genius" with his most cutting words.
But Alan's next move shattered every expectation.
No apology.
No excuse.
Not even a flicker of fear.
Alan stepped forward of his own accord, halting two paces from the desk. From his satchel, he calmly drew out a roll of densely written parchment, held it respectfully in both hands, and placed it carefully upon Snape's immaculate desk.
"Forgive me for disturbing you at this hour, Professor."
Alan's voice was steady. It carried not fear of authority, but genuine respect for higher knowledge.
"In fact, I was on my way to seek your advice. This is a draft of a paper I've been working on—'Optimization of the Ingredients in Scabies Cure Potion and Improvements in Reaction Efficiency.' In particular, I've encountered some bottlenecks regarding the reaction rates between dried nettle and ground snake fangs under varying temperatures, and I was hoping to receive your professional insight."
For once, Snape froze.
The barbed ridicule Snape had prepared clogged in his throat, neither rising nor falling.
He lowered his gaze to the parchment on the desk. His first instinct was to lift it with the tip of his wand and toss it straight into the fireplace. A first-year student, daring to use such a ridiculous trick to divert the subject?
But then—his eyes, almost by accident, caught the contents of the parchment that had unfurled. His movement stalled.
For the first time, clear ripples flickered across the depths of those abyss-black eyes.
This essay… contained not a single wasted word.
From beginning to end, it was filled with a system of symbols he had never seen before. Not ancient runes, nor any known form of alchemical notation. Rather, it was a rigorously structured, internally consistent system, resembling the molecular formulas and reaction equations of the Muggle science of chemistry.
Beneath them were staggeringly complex calculations of energy conversion, each step laid out with chilling precision.
Alan had even charted, with mathematical accuracy, the functional curves of how the magical properties of ingredients shifted with time and temperature during brewing. The smoothness and exactness of those curves were not conjecture, but looked like records from some higher-dimensional observation.
Snape sank into a long, deathly silence.
The only sound left in the office was the faint hiss of candlelight wavering in the draft.
He couldn't understand it.
No—that wasn't quite true. He could grasp Alan's ultimate goal—optimization of the potion. But he had no way of understanding by what kind of unheard-of theoretical framework Alan had derived such terrifyingly exact conclusions.
This was not a student's paper.
This was a fragment torn from another world—a world where magic and science had already fused to a far higher degree—a work of potionology from an advanced civilization.
It was using cold, absolute logic to dismantle, with brutal grandeur, the very foundations of the knowledge system he had spent a lifetime mastering and priding himself on.
For the first time, Severus Snape's face, usually twisted in scorn or anger, froze—not from rage, but from the sheer, crushing weight of intellectual shock. The greasy mask of contempt stiffened into an expression unnatural upon his features.
At last, he raised his hand and, with two fingers, pushed the parchment back across the desk. The gesture was cold, mechanical—yet laced with the rigidity of someone who felt deeply affronted.
"…Overly… superficial."
The words squeezed out through clenched teeth, each syllable cracking forth as if torn from frozen rock.
"By the next Potions class… you will submit a full, illustrated version of this report."
With that, he flicked his hand dismissively. The gesture was one of dismissal, a curt wave that said: Get out.
Alan calmly retrieved his parchment, as if he had not noticed the hollowness behind the professor's words.
"Thank you, Professor."
He offered polite gratitude, then turned and strode out with composure.
Behind him, Snape remained seated in the shadows, unmoving. His eyes were locked on the spot of the desk where the parchment had lain, as though an invisible, scorching brand had been seared there.
And within Alan's mind palace, a new task module lit up with the crisp tone of the system's cold, mechanical voice:
[Side Quest Triggered: Academic Suppression]
[Quest Requirement: In the next Potions class, submit a flawless essay in potionology that Severus Snape cannot refute—and force him to admit aloud that your theory holds a certain reference value.]
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