The glow on Fred and George's faces visibly dimmed.
It was a pure, unfiltered disappointment unique to youth. Just a moment ago, their eyes had blazed with excitement at the thought of a prank. Now, they looked like coals doused in cold water, leaving only a few tendrils of unwilling smoke.
Fred let his whole weight fall onto the mattress with an exaggerated sigh, while George tossed a crumpled bit of parchment up and down. The restless, vibrant energy in the room seemed to thicken into dull stagnation.
Alan quietly observed them.
His Mind Palace had already delivered its judgment: for the Weasley twins, any form of lecturing was no different than casting a Sleep Charm on a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Their nature was fire, was a torrent. Blocking it would only build pressure until the next, fiercer eruption.
Guidance — that was the only workable path.
To cover their crude, loophole-ridden idea with something more refined, more enticing, and more controllable.
He turned to his experiment chest, so out of place in the Gryffindor dormitory. It was made of dark hardwood, reinforced with brass, and bore no ordinary keyhole — only a smooth silver plate engraved with miniature runes. Alan tapped the plate in a precise sequence, and a crisp click of gears unlocked the box.
From within rows of neatly labeled bottles, he retrieved a palm-sized vial of ink.
Its body was deep-blue crystal, showing the nearly pitch-black liquid inside. A wax seal on the cork ensured its stability.
"Since you two are so fascinated by 'disguise,'" Alan's voice broke the gloom.
He stepped toward them, wearing a faint, knowing smile as he raised the bottle to their eyes.
"Perhaps you'd like to see my newest invention."
His tone was calm, yet carried an undeniable pull.
"I call it a technical upgrade to that 'talking diary' you've been relying on."
Fred's eyes lit up instantly. He shot upright, snatching the vial from Alan's hand as quickly as if chasing a Quidditch Snitch.
"What is it?"
He held it to the light. The ink inside was thick, pure black, leaving a slow trail on the glass as it slid. Aside from the bottle's elegance, it looked no different from the finest ink sold in Diagon Alley.
"It is ordinary ink," Alan said evenly, with the tone of a craftsman unveiling a masterpiece.
"But I've mixed into it a very rudimentary variant of a transformation potion of my own design. I call it Memory Ink."
Before they could react, Alan had already laid out two fresh sheets of parchment, faintly fragrant with wood fibers, on the desk. His movements carried a deliberate, ritual-like calm.
First, he selected a quill and shaved its nib to a perfect slant with a knife. Then, uncorking the vial, he dipped the quill into the viscous ink.
"Step one: Learning."
His hand moved steadily, smoothly across the parchment. Letters formed, each carrying his distinctive sharp-edged handwriting.
Percy Weasley.
The prefect's name sat clearly on the parchment.
"This ink must first remember the handwriting it intends to imitate."
Alan set the sheet aside. Step one: complete.
Then he took out another vial from a hidden compartment — this one much smaller, filled with a transparent liquid that refracted an unnatural glimmer of magic in the light. It was a drop of Obliviate Essence he had "borrowed" from the Potions supply cupboard.
"Step two: Command."
With a glass pipette, Alan drew a single drop and let it hover over the ink bottle.
All eyes locked on the droplet.
It fell.
Silent. It vanished into the blackness, and the bottle gave a faint, syrupy pop, as though bubbles had burst in thick molasses.
"Now… witness the miracle."
Alan took a clean quill, dipped it in the "activated" ink, and set it to the second sheet of parchment.
His hand moved as always, in his own familiar rhythm. But as the words emerged, time seemed to slow.
Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, peering eagerly at his side, all had their pupils contract sharply in unison.
The words read:
"I, Percy Weasley, hereby authorize Fred and George Weasley to conduct a nocturnal academic investigation tonight."
But the handwriting!
It wasn't Alan's at all.
It was rigid, meticulous — every letter as though measured by a ruler. The "P" curled upward with an arrogant hook, the "W" bent stiffly like a machine's work.
It was Percy Weasley's handwriting.
Perfect. Down to the tilt of each letter, the curve of every stroke.
"Merlin's… beard!"
The twins spoke in unison, each word dragging out like dream-murmurs. They weren't marveling. They were worshipping.
Their minds exploded with wild, brilliant schemes.
Imitating McGonagall's handwriting — a detention slip permanently authorizing their entry into any part of Hogwarts.
Imitating Snape's handwriting — assigning every Slytherin student to clean up Acromantula dung in the Forbidden Forest.
No! Too small in scope!
They could imitate the Minister of Magic's signature — send Dumbledore an "invitation" to attend a three-month-long international dragon-handling summit in Norway.
Fred snatched up the forged "authorization slip," his hands trembling. He wasn't looking at the words, but at the infinite, world-upending possibilities between the lines.
He jerked his head up toward Alan, eyes stripped of all their usual mischief, replaced with something bordering on fervent devotion.
"Alan, you're… you're…"
His throat was dry; his vocabulary suddenly too meager.
"…the God of Mischief!"
Fred raised the parchment high, like a freshly anointed scepter. In a solemn, unquestionable voice, he declared to the entire dormitory:
"I've decided! This great invention shall be named…
Percy's Authorization."
He lowered the sheet, gaze blazing at Alan.
It was pure, unreserved awe.
And in that moment, Fred Weasley understood with crystalline clarity:
Alan's brain wasn't built for learning or exams.
It was built to overturn every rule at Hogwarts — the ultimate magical device in human form, walking among them.
~~----------------------
Patreon Advance Chapters:
[email protected] / Dreamer20