On Saturday afternoon, the Hogwarts library was filled with the unique scent of old parchment and dust. Sunlight streamed in diagonally through the tall Gothic windows, casting visible rays of light into the air.
Alan, carrying Snape's infamous three-foot essay assignment—a task privately deemed "impossible" by nearly all students—settled into a quiet corner.
This essay was a mountain waiting to be conquered.
No sooner had he set down the heavy Book of Potions than a familiar figure caught the edge of his vision.
Hannah Abbott, from Hufflepuff.
She was slumped over a messy desk, looking dejected. The tip of her quill was frayed from being chewed. Before her lay a sheet of parchment so soaked in ink that it was barely legible.
Alan's gaze swept across the parchment.
It was filled with fragmented scraps of knowledge about Transfiguration: a mention of "Gamp's Law" here, a note about "molecular structure of object conversion" there. Disjointed, chaotic, like a ball of yarn shredded by a mischievous cat.
Hannah let out a barely audible sigh and tossed her quill onto the desk.
"Having trouble?"
A calm voice spoke from behind her.
Hannah spun around. Seeing Alan, her eyes lit up instantly, as though a drowning person had found a lifeline.
"Oh, Alan!"
Her voice carried the edge of tears.
"It's Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration essay! I just… I don't know how to write it! I feel like I've put down everything I know, but it's still a complete mess—no logic at all!"
Alan didn't reply immediately. He simply picked up her draft parchment and studied it carefully.
After a few seconds, he set it down.
"Your problem isn't a lack of knowledge."
His voice was clear, steady, each word striking directly at the root of the issue.
"What you're missing is a structure."
Unlike other well-meaning classmates who might suggest she consult another book or pile on more notes, Alan knew that would only add more tangles to the already knotted mess.
Instead, he pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment and laid it neatly on the desk.
Dipping his quill into ink, he drew crisp, precise lines, sketching a simple pyramid.
"I'll teach you a thinking tool—something often used in the Muggle world. It's called the Pyramid Principle."
Hannah leaned closer, curiosity piqued by the strange diagram.
"You see," Alan pointed to the pyramid's peak, "every good essay follows this structure. At the top sits your core thesis—the single central argument of your essay. It must be clear, precise, and provable."
He paused, giving her a moment to think.
"For example, your thesis could be: The essence of Transfiguration is a precise art born from the union of willpower and magical control."
Hannah's eyes flickered with understanding.
Alan's quill moved to the pyramid's second layer, where he drew three boxes beneath the peak.
"Then, you need three to five supporting arguments to uphold that thesis. They're like the foundation stones that keep the peak standing."
"For instance, Supporting Argument One: Strong willpower is the foundation of successful Transfiguration.
Supporting Argument Two: Precise magical control ensures the stability of the transformation.
Supporting Argument Three: A deep understanding of the object is essential for success."
Each supporting argument stood out like a signpost pointing to the summit.
"Finally," Alan moved his quill further down, sketching smaller boxes beneath each supporting argument to form the base of the pyramid, "you need evidence for each point. These can come from textbook definitions, your own practice, or even classroom examples."
He pointed beneath the first supporting argument.
"Here, you could explain why concentration is crucial, quoting one of Professor McGonagall's demonstrations."
Then to the second.
"Here, you might describe how variations in wand movements affect magical output and change the results of the spell."
Alan lifted his gaze to Hannah, who already looked more hopeful.
"In this way," he concluded, "your essay transforms from an indecipherable tangle into a structure that is clear, logical, and rigorous. Your task now isn't aimlessly gathering knowledge, but systematically filling in the structure."
To make the method even clearer, Alan pulled out his unique Sorting Quill.
In a low voice, he gave it a command:
"Marking directive: Thesis—red. Supporting arguments—blue. Evidence—green."
Then he gently swept the quill across Hannah's chaotic draft.
A wonder occurred.
Where the quill passed, her scattered sentences automatically shifted colors. A note about willpower turned bright blue; a description of spellcasting detail glowed green.
In just half an hour, the parchment that had driven Hannah to despair transformed into a colorful, structured map of knowledge. Her essay, once directionless, now had unprecedented clarity.
Hannah looked up, eyes shining with awe.
In that short time, she felt she had learned more than in an entire month of Transfiguration lessons. It wasn't just knowledge being taught—it was a reshaping of thought itself.
After sending off a grateful and enlightened Hannah, Alan returned to his own desk.
He began applying the Pyramid Principle to his own essay: The Irreplaceability of Traditional Potion-Making.
But his central thesis carried a daring challenge:
"Traditional potion-making methods are irreplaceable for ensuring stability and safety—but in efficiency and innovation, they leave significant room for optimization."
It was, in essence, a veiled critique of centuries of unchanged potion-making traditions.
As he developed his supporting arguments, his eyes drifted to the Glow Moss Hagrid had given him, resting in the corner of the desk.
A new idea struck like lightning through his mind palace.
On the edge of the parchment, he hastily jotted down a bold concept:
A study on how to harness the principles of bioluminescence, combined with alchemy, to improve potion efficiency.
The corner of his lips curled almost imperceptibly.
He decided to submit this concept as an appendix—one copy for Professor Snape, and another as a "surprise."
The Hogwarts library was more than a storehouse of books. It was a sanctuary built from silence and time.
Towering shelves cast dappled shadows, the air fragrant with old parchment and aged wood. Dust motes floated in beams of stained-glass light, and each breath seemed to draw in centuries of accumulated knowledge and magic.
Alan was immersed in this atmosphere. His fingers traced the spine of a tome on ancient alchemical symbols. His mind palace whirred at high speed, transforming the text before him into cascading data streams that collided across countless mental nodes.
His essay needed evidence, and here was an ocean of it.
Just then, a sharp, frustrated sigh shattered his focus.
Alan lifted his eyes from the page, pinpointing the source immediately.
Not far away, at an oak table buried under books, a senior student was pressing his palms hard against his face, on the verge of despair. A bronze-and-blue raven badge gleamed on his chest—the mark of Ravenclaw, symbol of wisdom and learning.
Yet at this moment, this seeker of knowledge was clearly drowning in it.
Before him rose a hill of books: Anatomy of the Soul, Mental Imprints in Ancient Runes, Defense Against the Dark Arts: Soul Attachment Edition.
Each was a tome that would terrify most students.
But his actions were frantic and aimless. He scribbled messy notes in margins, muttered to himself, scowled, then shoved one book away only to snatch up another, flipping with mounting desperation.
It was a raw, inefficient search, like endless self-torment.
Finally, the string of reason snapped.
Bang!
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