Saturday night, seven o'clock.
The corridor leading to the Transfiguration classroom on the sixth floor was quieter than anywhere else in Hogwarts. Even the torches along the walls seemed to burn with restraint; their light was swallowed by the heavy stone and left only pale, lonely shadows on the flagstones.
Alan Scott's footsteps were the only sound—steady and rhythmic.
He had received Professor McGonagall's notice and arrived punctually for the first meeting of the "Advanced Transfiguration Theory Study Group."
He pushed open the familiar, heavy oak door.
Inside was not the ordinary classroom crowded with desks he knew. The space had been rearranged. Several deep-brown leather sofas—soft enough to sink into—were arranged around a low walnut table. The fireplace flame flickered quietly, casting the room in a warm amber glow. The air smelled richly of old books, parchment, and fine wood—the distinct, mellow perfume of a hall of learning.
Four students were already seated on the sofas.
Their calm, confident presence set them apart from ordinary pupils. As Alan's gaze swept them, he saw they were in their fifth or sixth year; each wore a gleaming badge on his chest.
Prefects.
Student-council dignitaries.
These were Hogwarts' elite—future pillars of the magical world.
When a first-year like Alan entered, those four sharp gazes instantly focused on him: curiosity, scrutiny, and an almost imperceptible air of inquiry from those used to being above others.
They did not whisper to one another, but the invisible pressure in the room rose. How had a first-year earned the right to step into a sanctum reserved for prodigies?
Professor McGonagall sat in the main single chair, spine rigid, expression characteristically severe. She nodded slightly at Alan and, in concise terms, introduced his identity to the others.
When she finished the introductions, her eyes fixed on Alan.
"Mr. Scott, welcome."
Her voice was devoid of warmth, as if stating a fact.
"Before we formally begin discussion, according to the group's tradition, each new member must pass an entrance test to prove they belong here."
She addressed Alan—and the other four seniors—alike.
Admiration or not, in the halls of scholarship rules and standards must hold. Talent must be proven by absolute competence.
She raised her hand and flicked her wand—clean, decisive, without flourish.
In front of the empty sofa opposite Alan, space warped subtly. A small square table materialized silently and settled on the velvet carpet. On its top lay a stone.
A perfectly ordinary gray stone—the kind one could kick up on any Scottish path.
"Your test is simple."
McGonagall's gaze cut through her spectacles with the precision of a keen blade.
"Without changing this stone's essence as a stone, make it edible."
At once the delicate balance in the room collapsed.
The sixth-year boy opposite Alan, wearing the student-council president's badge, pinched his brow into a knot. The other prefects exchanged looks of disbelief and solemnity.
This was a paradox.
A classic logical deadlock in the field of Transfiguration.
"To preserve a stone's essence" — in the definitions used by magic and alchemy — meant leaving its core material composition intact: its molecular structure must remain silicon dioxide. Its being must remain anchored to the concept "rock."
To be "edible" meant its molecular structure had to transform into organic substances that the human digestive system can break down, absorb, and derive energy from.
One is inorganic. The other is organic. The two conditions are, at root, mutually exclusive.
This was not a test of magical power. No amount of raw magical energy could violate Transfiguration's deepest logical rules. This test measured the depth of one's understanding of Transfiguration law—the ability to reason conceptually.
It looked like an impossible stalemate.
The older students' looks at Alan shifted from appraisal to a pitying watchfulness. In their estimation, this first-year prodigy would here very likely take a spectacular fall.
Alan, however, showed no hint of panic or puzzlement.
He rose calmly and walked to the small table.
He did not immediately lift his wand. Instead he leaned forward to examine the stone carefully, his gaze intent as if appreciating a work of art.
At the same time, in the depths of his mind palace a storm was roaring.
Countless knowledge modules—"material properties," "logical definitions," "philosophy of existence," and "quantum chemistry"—fired up and streamed through his mental circuits like a galaxy of data.
[Paradox Identification: [Attribute A: SiO₂] [Attribute B: Organic, Digestible]]
[Logical Conflict: A ∧ B = ?]
[Conventional Path Simulations:]
[Path One: Whole-object transfiguration. Convert SiO₂ → C₆H₁₂O₆. Verdict: Fail. Violates the premise of "preserving the essence."]
[Path Two: Cast an illusion. Produce an edible taste/texture illusion. Verdict: Fail. Does not achieve physical, literal edibility.]
[Path Three: Concept substitution. Expand the concept of "stone" to find a special-case that is both a stone and edible—e.g., "rock salt." Verdict: Fail. The test subject is specified as…]
"…'ordinary stone,' not replaceable."
One by one, the conventional dead ends were rapidly constructed and blocked.
A few seconds later, after all the standard paths had been shut off, a completely new idea flickered to life in an unexpected corner.
The singularity was found.
The key to the problem did not lie in how to change the stone, but in how to define "this stone."
Are an object's properties singular, or can they be layered?
Alan lifted his head, eyes clear and calm.
He raised his wand—the one made of purpleheart wood and phoenix feather, as if an extension of his own arm.
He did not hesitate.
His magic did not surge like a raging flood. Instead, it was highly compressed, condensed into a stream of energy finer than a hair and more precise than an embroidery needle.
This energy flowed like a nanometer-precision sculpting tool—gentle yet unyielding—covering the very surface of the stone.
No explosions, no dazzling displays.
Only a barely perceptible, moonlight-like white glow trickled across the stone's surface for a brief moment.
Then, a miraculous transformation occurred.
The outermost layer of silicon dioxide molecules on the stone's surface, under Alan's masterful control, was precisely broken down into individual silicon and oxygen atoms.
These atoms then recombined with free carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen in the air, in a completely new and perfect sequence.
A new layer of material—just a few molecules thick, yet with a flawless crystalline structure—was created and perfectly adhered to the original stone's surface.
To the naked eye, the stone still looked like the same dull gray rock.
Only in the firelight did it reveal a faint, subtle sparkle along its surface.
"Professor, I've finished."
Alan put away his wand, speaking calmly.
Every gaze in the room fixed on him, filled with doubt.
"Oh?"
Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow, her eyes narrowing slightly behind her spectacles.
"Please, explain."
"Very simple."
Alan held up the stone—still slightly warm with residual magical energy—between two fingers.
Using his thumbnail, he gently scraped the surface.
A tiny bit of fine, sugar-like white powder fell onto his fingertip.
Under everyone's breathless stare, he placed the powder in his mouth and lightly tasted it.
"It's sweet."
He looked up at Professor McGonagall, delivering an explanation that was precise, impeccable, and indisputable.
"I did not alter the stone's essence as a stone.
Its interior, its core, remains 100% inedible rock. Its macroscopic physical properties and chemical composition have not changed in any way."
His voice was clear and strong, echoing through the silent classroom.
"I merely used Transfiguration to add, on its very surface, a layer with the property of being edible, composed of sucrose, through subatomic-level decomposition and reassembly."
Alan held up the stone for everyone to see.
"I did not change the core; I simply… added a new 'layer'."
Layer.
This unprecedented term, infused with the flavor of Muggle computer science, struck every student's cognitive framework like a hammer.
The entire classroom fell into a long, deathly silence.
The crackling of the fireplace seemed to fade into nothingness.
The four top students in Hogwarts—once expectant, then puzzled—now sat frozen in expressions that combined astonishment and incredulity.
Their minds were being brutally reformatted by this entirely new concept.
Professor McGonagall looked at Alan. Those eyes, usually as sharp as a hawk and as icy as a glacial lake, showed cracks in their perennial ice.
For the first time, a pure, genuine, unreserved sense of shock and admiration flowed from the depths of her gaze.
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