The corridor leading to the Gryffindor common room echoed with Fred Weasley's exaggerated panting.
The stack of books in his arms—each one thick enough to serve as a weapon—was so heavy that his arm muscles were trembling under the weight. This was no simple delivery; it was more like a punishment for his strength.
"Honestly, Alan." Fred shifted the books upward, trying to find a less painful position. Tilting his head, his gaze peeked over the pile and landed on Alan, who was walking lightly beside him. "I still don't get it. How do you do it?"
His voice carried both genuine exhaustion and unashamed admiration.
"It's the same every time. Hagrid's like an enraged dragon, about to breathe fire—and then you say a few words, and suddenly he forgets what he was about to do."
Alan's steps didn't falter in the slightest. His expression remained calm and composed, as though what had just happened in front of Hagrid had been nothing more than a casual drill.
"Simple."
His voice was cool and steady, carrying an insight far beyond his years.
"You don't need complicated spells or advanced theories. You just need to understand that every person's brain is, at its core, a complex processing system. And Hagrid's system has… a central database with absolute priority."
Alan raised a single finger and tapped lightly at the air.
"That database is called: Magical Creatures."
The twins and Lee Jordan instinctively slowed their steps, their full attention drawn to Alan.
"When he's angry, his central processor is running a task called 'losing his temper.' But that task has a much lower priority than his central database. All you need to do is bypass the current task, and trigger a topic he absolutely cannot resist—a keyword from his database that excites him the most. The moment it's called up, his system resources are fully occupied, and the 'losing temper' task is instantly suspended, even cleared out of memory."
This string of explanations, laced with strange "computer terminology" from another world, struck the twins and Lee Jordan like silent shockwaves.
Their expressions shifted from curiosity, to confusion, and finally froze into a mixture of awe and stupefaction. They felt as though they understood every word individually, but combined together it became something incomprehensible, knowledge from a higher dimension.
At that moment, a well-feathered, sharp-eyed barn owl swooped in from a tower window, landing firmly on the sill before Alan. Alan handed over a square package wrapped in plain brown parchment. The owl gripped it tightly in its talons before taking flight again, disappearing into the dusk.
Far off at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Hagrid's long and enthusiastic "raising Norwegian Ridgebacks" monologue finally drew to a close. He seemed to have completely forgotten how furious he'd been just minutes ago, now brimming with joy at having found a kindred spirit.
"Oh, right!" he slapped his thigh and boomed, "Been talkin' too much! C'mon, kids, come inside fer a cup o' tea! Just baked a batch o' rock cakes!"
Hagrid's enthusiasm could not be refused.
When they pushed open the great wooden door, a wave of warm air met them, carrying the scents of burning wood, animal fur, and some unknown spice. The hut's interior was as cluttered as always: a massive copper kettle steaming on the fireplace, harnesses of all sizes hanging on the walls alongside bundles of dried herbs.
Yet everyone's eyes were instantly drawn to the cage in the corner.
Inside, a small bird stood silently.
Its body wasn't large, but every feather shimmered with a deep, almost melancholy shade of dark green. In the glow of the firelight, that green seemed alive, breathing softly in the shifting shadows. Its eyes were huge, the pupils pure ruby red without the slightest blemish—yet they carried an inborn sorrow, a weight of sadness that could not be dispelled.
Just by sitting there quietly, the bird imbued the noisy hut with a thread of poetic melancholy.
"What bird is that, Hagrid?" Lee Jordan asked in a hushed voice, as if afraid to disturb the fragile beauty.
"Oh, that's an Augurey."
Hagrid's voice dropped as well. His towering frame seemed to stoop slightly in the presence of the bird.
"A very… very special bird. In Ireland, old wizards also call it the 'Rain Bird.'"
He paused, then added,
"Its cry foretells rain… and also sorrow."
"Foretells?"
The word lit up inside Alan's mind-palace like a beacon. Anything related to "information," "prediction," or "patterns" sparked in him a near-obsessive curiosity.
He stepped forward, shifting his gaze from the Augurey to Hagrid, his eyes sharp and clear.
"Hagrid, may I ask—this so-called 'prophecy' of the Augurey, what is its underlying logic? Is it based on a causal-magic principle that allows it to directly perceive future timelines we cannot yet analyze? Or is it simply an extraordinary sensory ability, one that far surpasses human limits, allowing it to detect minute changes in humidity, air pressure, and ambient magical flux before anyone else can?"
Alan's tendency to dissect everything down to its "underlying logic" was far beyond Hagrid's depth of knowledge.
The half-giant blinked his beetle-like eyes, his face settling into that familiar expression of "being asked something he couldn't answer."
"Er… well… I reckon… probably a bit o' both?" he muttered vaguely, hoping a catch-all answer would suffice.
At that moment, a sudden change occurred.
The Augurey, which had been so quiet it seemed like a stuffed specimen, moved without warning.
Its head snapped around at an unnaturally swift, almost eerie angle. Those ruby-like eyes pierced the air, cutting past everyone else, locking with absolute precision onto Fred Weasley.
Time seemed to stretch.
Then, the little beak opened.
"Skreeee—!"
A piercing cry tore through the warmth of the hut.
The sound was nothing like its melancholic beauty; there was no softness, only a raw, scraping shriek full of grief and anguish. The despair within it poured like a bucket of ice water, dousing everyone to the bone. Hearts skipped a beat, then clenched tight as though seized by invisible hands.
Hagrid's face drained of all color the instant the cry rang out.
The weathered lines of his face twisted into a mixture of shock and deep fear. He didn't even try to calm the bird. Instead, his wide, trembling eyes fixed on Fred.
"Oh, no… Merlin's beard… that… that wasn't the cry for rain…"
"What was it?"
George's voice was taut, almost breaking. His hand instinctively clamped down on Fred's arm—he could feel his twin's body go rigid with dread.
Hagrid's lips worked, his throat rasping like sandpaper.
"This is another kind of prophecy."
Each word was squeezed out with difficulty, every syllable carrying a heavy weight of ill omen.
"It foretells… that the one it cries at will soon face… unexpected, great trouble."
The color drained from Fred's face as if all blood had been siphoned away. His grin vanished completely, replaced by shock and a fear that spread rapidly through his features.
Alan, however, furrowed his brows.
He didn't scoff at it as a blind man of science might. In the magical world, any legend so old and widely believed could well hide a deeper, undiscovered truth.
The moment the Augurey screamed, his mind-palace had already begun operating at full speed.
[Event: Augurey issues a "calamity warning" cry at target Fred Weasley.]
[Source: Ancient magical creature.]
[Credibility: Unknown, but based on Hagrid's reaction, weight extremely high.]
[Definition: High-risk variable.]
[Directive: Input variable into future overall risk assessment model.]
Cold streams of data flashed rapidly through his consciousness.
In the vast and intricate star-map of his mental model, the light node representing Fred Weasley lit up. Beside it, a crimson warning sigil—signifying the highest level of threat—began to flash urgently, pulse after pulse.
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