The rhythmic rise and fall of the twins' chests was the only sign of life amid the raging purple inferno.
Alan's gaze shifted away from their pale but relatively peaceful faces. The tension in his fingers around his wand finally eased, releasing a force that could have crushed bone. The muscles across his shoulder blades relaxed, and a long-held exhalation, heavy and damp, turned into mist, dissipating into the scorching air of the Forbidden Forest.
They were saved.
Or, more accurately, brought back from the brink.
His eyes fell on the black vines that bound the Weasley twins. They were far from lifeless—their glossy surfaces seemed saturated with some living essence, pulsing rhythmically. A chilling magical aura radiated from them, thick with a soporific stickiness yet laced with a paralyzing, constrictive energy.
It was the work of that diary.
A compound curse, a trap that was simultaneously magical and botanical.
In Alan's mind palace, the structure of this magic was quickly analyzed. Ingenious, yes, but fundamentally still plant-based.
To deal with plants, no complicated spells were necessary.
Just the sharpest knife.
Alan lifted his holly wand, aiming the tip at the base where the vines connected to the ground—the source of all their magical energy.
"Diffindo!"
There was no explosive roar, only a crisp, precise snap as if an invisible ice layer had been severed.
An almost imperceptible blade of magical force flashed from the tip of his wand. It wasn't light—it was a pure edge formed entirely from the concept of "cutting," twisting the air around it.
The vines' pulse stopped abruptly.
They snapped cleanly, the cuts smooth as mirrors. Vitality and magic poured out like a breached dam. The glossy black surface faded rapidly into lifeless ash. In a single second, the tough vines withered and became brittle, as if drained of all moisture and life.
They fell away from the twins, crumbling into a handful of black powder.
The crisis was over.
Alan was about to step forward and cast a simple "Revive" charm to wake them when two sharp, distinct sounds cut through the crackling of flames.
One was a high-pitched, tearing crack in the air, sharp and piercing, with the acrid scent of ozone and scorched air.
The other was a heavy thud of impact, reverberating through the clearing.
Two figures appeared beside Alan, one tall, one short, as if from nowhere.
Professor Flitwick materialized first, his form shifting from illusion to reality after a rapid long-distance projection. His small frame wobbled, face pale and drained of blood.
Hagrid landed like a falling boulder, his massive feet stomping firmly onto the scorched ground.
The moment Flitwick regained stability, his gaze was completely captured by the scene before him.
A sea of purple flames.
A hellish landscape formed from the smoldering remains of thousands of Ashwinders, the inferno lighting the surrounding trees like specters. The air carried the unique, sweet-smoky tang left by burnt magical matter.
At the center of this devastation were two unconscious students and one… completely unharmed, disturbingly composed Alan Scott.
The tiny Professor of Charms, with decades of duel experience and countless world-shaking magical events witnessed, made a choked sound but couldn't form words. His eyes darted from the fire to the twins to Alan, back and forth, unable to process.
"Y…you…?"
Flitwick's voice finally emerged, trembling violently despite his own awareness.
"This… you did this?"
Alan didn't answer. Any explanation now would be a waste of time.
"It's urgent, Professor."
His voice was clear and steady, a stark contrast to the chaos around them. He gestured toward the still-unconscious Weasleys.
"We need to get them to the hospital wing immediately."
That one sentence forced Flitwick to snap out of his shock. As a professor, protecting students was his top priority.
He bent down quickly beside the twins, wand tip glowing with soft diagnostic light, scanning them rapidly. Once confirmed that they were merely in a deep magical slumber and their vital signs were stable, his chest finally unclenched.
"Nicely done, Alan!"
Hagrid's massive hand clapped Alan on the shoulder with such force that Alan's bones protested. He looked at the inferno—the very flames that made even him shiver—and gave Alan a thumbs-up the size of a fan.
"You saved them!"
Flitwick no longer questioned the details. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an object, blackened with age.
It was a seemingly ordinary brass pocket watch, the cover engraved with intricate patterns, the hands eternally frozen at a specific time.
A pre-set key to the door.
"Grab it, kids!" he shouted. At the same time, he flicked his wand, and a pure blue magical aura spread outward.
"Restore to original state!"
It was not a healing spell, but a sophisticated control charm. The raging purple flames were forcibly pushed aside, restrained into neat channels across the clearing, allowing for safe access.
Professor Flitwick took one of the twins under each arm, draping their arms over his shoulders.
"Alan, Hagrid, hold on to them!"
Alan and Hagrid immediately complied.
In the next instant, that familiar sensation surged through him—like a cold hook snagging his navel and yanking him backward with brutal force. His entire body was swept along.
The surrounding forest twisted and stretched, colors melting into an indistinct blur. The scorching, acrid wind of the Forbidden Forest was instantly replaced by the warm, bright, clean-scented air of Hogwarts Hospital, mingling disinfectant with restorative magic.
Madam Pomfrey was already waiting.
Once the twins were gently laid on two pristine beds and began receiving professional treatment, the taut string inside Alan—stretched to its absolute limit—finally relaxed completely.
A wave of profound exhaustion surged from deep within his mind, flooding every muscle and bone.
He instinctively reached into his pocket.
He wanted to touch his familiar holly wand, to feel its reassuring smoothness.
But his fingers did not meet wood.
Instead, they brushed against something cold, hard, and carrying an unnatural, almost painful heat…
A small, hardbound diary.
Alan froze.
He yanked the object from his pocket.
Its black hard cover bore no words, yet it exuded an indescribable, malevolent aura.
It was the "talking diary."
When had it transferred from the Weasleys' pocket into his own? Was it during their encounter in the Forbidden Forest? Or while passing through the cursed vines?
At that moment, the diary's cover began to heat up.
The heat did not come from flames—it was a malignant energy emanating from deep within, burning his palm with a soul-deep venom.
Under his gaze, something began to seep onto the blank cover.
A line of writing slowly emerged.
It was not ink.
It was blood.
A thick, crimson liquid, like fresh blood, traced out twisted words brimming with extreme malice and mockery.
The words appeared, then slowly faded, like a silent, vengeful curse.
"What a pity… you almost succeeded… again…"
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