Fred and George's eyes blazed with fire — the fervent flame that belonged only to gods of mischief.
"Annual Award for Most Hated Professor!" Fred lowered his voice, though his excitement kept pushing the pitch upward. "Reason for nomination: hair too greasy, causing severe damage to student appetite!"
"We could even use Memory Ink to perfectly replicate Minister Fudge's signature!" George added, already sketching imaginary layouts of a letter in the air. "We'll need the Ministry's highest-grade parchment, of course, and the official wax seal!"
Their laughter echoed through the warm firelight of the Gryffindor dormitory, filling the air with pure, unfiltered joy.
Alan did not join in.
The outside noise was already fading rapidly. The twins' animated faces, the flickering fire, the howling wind outside the window — all grew vague, distant. His consciousness, like a diver, was sinking ever deeper into the depths of his Mind Palace.
The grand, solemn, tightly structured palace unfolded in his mind with a thunderous roar.
Beneath the dome, everything that had just happened replayed in data streams — analyzed, dissected, reassembled.
The first image drawn forth was that black, unmarked diary. It hovered in the center of the palace, surrounded by strings of unseen code, made of fragmented soul pieces, flashing faintly. Its core function was clearly marked: [Acquisition of Information].
It could converse, provide intelligence — it was a port leading to an unknown database.
Then, a vial of ink appeared — emerald green, with a faint scent of oats. Memory Ink.
Its structure was broken down layer by layer: from the handwriting-mimicry spell model, to the alchemical medium that carried memory. Its core value was defined as: [Forgery of Information].
It could replicate identity, fabricate authority, serve as a key that could deceive reality itself.
Acquisition.
Forgery.
Two seemingly unrelated magical objects, yet within the Mind Palace's vast logical network, a glowing thread connected them precisely.
They pointed to the same endpoint:
Information.
At once, the word leapt to the highest priority within Alan's palace. Magic fused with information was no longer a vague concept. It was a vast, unexplored continent brimming with limitless power.
And then it struck him — a new concept, unrefined, raw as a meteor crashing into his mind.
In the palace's central computation chamber, three distinct spell models were drawn forth, floating side by side.
[Sound Recognition Charm]: a basic spell for identifying specific syllables.
[Memory Charm]: a spell capable of imprinting sensory information onto a medium.
[Auto-Quill Charm]: a dime-a-dozen enchantment that let a quill write on its own.
Before, they had been isolated, each a tool with a single function.
But now, Alan's mind raced to create a "spell program" — a logical processor that would bridge them.
"If…"
His breath in the real world faltered for an instant.
"If I string them together logically — set the Sound Recognition Charm as the trigger, so that when it captures a specific keyword, it activates the Memory Charm, which then feeds the stored sound information to the Auto-Quill Charm for output…"
There was no need to spell it out.
He was about to create a magical device capable of recording sound automatically, then converting it into text on command.
A portable automatic stenographer.
The very idea sent a jolt of electricity racing up his spine, into his brain. Every cell in his body seemed to tremble in resonance.
This wasn't a toy prank invention.
Nor was it a mere modification of existing magic.
This was a brand-new logic of creation.
This was what "Information Magic" was meant to be — powerful, profound, inevitable.
Alan's vision gradually pulled back from the void, refocusing on reality.
The twins' discussion had ended.
True to their nature, they were already impatient to act. George held the black diary, while Fred dragged out from under the bed a silvery, shimmering Invisibility Cloak.
They were preparing to leave.
Ignoring his earlier warning: unknown magical items = unknown risks.
Alan did not speak again.
His Mind Palace had already simulated the outcome: verbal warnings alone had almost no effect on the Weasley twins, whose creed was "truth is proven through practice."
They needed failure.
A real, tangible failure. One sharp enough to sting, but not deep enough to scar. Only then would they truly understand what the word risk assessment meant — and what price it demanded.
For Alan, their inevitable failure was also a perfect opportunity. A chance to gather firsthand experimental data.
He had not told them — but moments ago, when George had handed him the diary, his fingertips had already executed a silent, microscopic spell at the lower right corner of the cover.
A self-designed enchantment, one he had named: Miniature Magical Beacon.
Its structure was crude, stripped of all excess, leaving only the core: Alert.
If the diary's surroundings experienced any magical fluctuation beyond a preset threshold — one not emitted by the holder themselves, say, a Stunning Spell from an upperclassman — it would immediately send a discreet, near-undetectable alarm signal back to Alan's receiver.
That receiver now rested quietly under his pillow.
A simple river stone, enchanted with a reversed rune sequence.
A crude, but effective remote monitoring system.
From the safety of the dormitory, Alan would "observe" the twins' entire nighttime adventure.
He would record every reaction of the diary.
Record how it guided them.
Record how it set traps.
Record its ultimate goal.
Every piece of data, captured, stored, and analyzed by the Mind Palace — without a single frame missed.
"Good luck."
He said it casually, to the twins who were just about to throw on the cloak and slip out.
But his tone carried a weight — one they would only understand later.
~~----------------------
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