The Forbidden Forest incident spread faster than anyone could have imagined.
In just seventy-two hours, the name Alan Scott had replaced both Quidditch and final exams as the one and only topic echoing through every corner of Hogwarts Castle.
The first version of the rumor still barely clung to reality.
"Did you hear? Alan Scott from Gryffindor went into the Forbidden Forest alone to rescue the Weasley twins!"
"I heard he used some clever fire spell — wiped out over a dozen Ash Serpents in one go!"
But as the story traveled through dining halls, corridors, and common rooms, it began to shed its factual skin — and sprint headlong into legend.
By the next morning, the Hufflepuff table was buzzing with an even more "enhanced" version.
"No, not a dozen! My brother's friend said he saw the Weasley twins being carried back. They said it was a giant serpent — as big as a Norwegian Ridgeback! Alan fought it for half an hour!"
By the weekend, when the story finally circled back to the Gryffindor common room, it had evolved completely — now a grand, bard-worthy epic that could be sung for days.
A senior student stood dramatically by the fireplace, gesturing wildly as he performed the final "artistic adaptation" before an audience of wide-eyed first-years.
"You don't understand! It wasn't just a basilisk — it was an army of them! Hundreds, thousands!"
His voice trembled with theatrical passion.
"Alan Scott, to save his friends, stood alone in the center of the forest — chanting the long-lost incantation of ancient Atlantis!"
He spread his arms wide, embodying the hero himself.
"And then — the sky split open! A firestorm fell from the heavens, fierce enough to burn half the Forbidden Forest to ash! Every last serpent — gone, in an instant!"
"Wow…"
The first-years gasped in perfect unison, faces full of awe.
In their eyes, Alan's image had already soared far beyond that of an ordinary student — nearly on par with the legendary wizards whose portraits lined the castle walls. Some even whispered that he might one day surpass Merlin himself.
This feverish admiration soon began to manifest in peculiar ways.
When Alan walked down the corridor toward the library, a few first-year girls would hide behind suits of armor, squealing softly.
When he ate in the Great Hall, curious glances came at him from every direction — full of admiration, curiosity, and silent speculation.
Once, a Ravenclaw boy even mustered the courage to stop him, face flushed, holding out a brand-new spellbook.
"M-Mr. Scott… could I—um—have your autograph?"
Alan looked at the boy — at the unmasked, almost religious devotion shining in his eyes.
He felt no pride. No pleasure.
On the contrary, a cold, metallic sense of danger crept up his spine.
The tip of his fork drew a silent line across the sausage on his plate.
The noise of the hall faded away. In the quiet corridors of his Mind Palace, cold logic began its ruthless calculation.
"Powerful" and "dangerous."
In this world, those two words were practically synonyms.
Revealing extraordinary power — and doing it so publicly — was like lighting a thousand bright torches in the dead of night. That light would attract not only admiration… but predators.
How would Dumbledore view a first-year student capable of summoning a "firestorm"?
As the future of Hogwarts? Or as an uncontrollable threat — another Grindelwald in the making?
And in the deeper shadows… how would that dormant, fragmented soul — the one lurking in the dark — perceive this "prodigy" who had disrupted his plans?
As a talent worth recruiting… or an obstacle that must be eliminated before it grows?
Either kind of attention would be disastrous.
This wasn't part of Alan's plan. His strategy had always been to grow in silence — to study the board from outside the game, not to become one of its most visible, most targeted pieces.
But now, like it or not, he had become exactly that — a crucial piece watched by both sides.
He had to take that overly ornate crown — the one called "Hero" — off his own head.
And he had to do it subtly, leaving not a single trace.
The opportunity arrived right on schedule — during lunch the next day.
Alan deliberately chose a seat near the Ravenclaw table. Predictably, it didn't take long before a few Ravenclaws — known for their endless curiosity — came over, carrying their trays.
"Alan, can we ask you something?" said the boy in front, pushing up his glasses. His tone was brimming with curiosity. "About that… firestorm in the Forbidden Forest."
Alan lifted his head. The moment had come.
He didn't answer right away. Instead, his eyes flickered — as if recalling some horrifying memory. His hand, holding the knife and fork, trembled ever so slightly.
"Firestorm?" he repeated softly, then shook his head sharply as though burned, forcing a weak, uneasy smile.
"Oh, no… no, you've misunderstood completely."
The performance worked. Students nearby began to turn their heads, curious.
"That wasn't some powerful, controlled spell," he said — lowering his voice, adopting a tone that was half-academic, half-confessional. "It was… a chain reaction. Wild, uncontrollable, terrifyingly lucky."
Across from him, the Ravenclaws' eyes gleamed — the bait had taken. Alan continued weaving the theory he'd prepared.
"I only cast a basic Fire-Making Charm at one Ash Serpent. I wasn't trying to fight it — just to scare it off."
He spread his hands, an innocent expression on his face.
"How could I have known that serpent's magical core was already unstable? My spell was like a match dropped into a thousand barrels of gunpowder. It just… exploded."
"Exploded?" a Ravenclaw girl gasped.
"Yes. And the worst part?" Alan's voice trembled slightly, perfectly timed, eyes reflecting just the right amount of fear. "Those serpents seem to share a kind of magical resonance. One explosion set off the next — like knocking down the first domino in a chain. In seconds, they all went off."
His tone grew hoarse, as though from the memory.
"To be honest, I was terrified. The surge of magic nearly tore me apart — I was almost caught in the center of it. I swear, I never want to experience that kind of luck again."
The explanation was flawless.
It was filled with convincing, lore-consistent detail — the sort of reasoning that made sense to anyone versed in magical biology.
In just a few sentences, he had reframed what once sounded like a heroic feat into a reluctant accident — a mere "magical chain reaction" caused by coincidence.
More importantly, it fit perfectly with his established persona: the thoughtful "theorist" who preferred research and logic to glory and power.
A prodigy who could unleash world-shaking magic was terrifying — someone to be feared and watched.
But a lucky scholar — who stumbled into greatness by chance, through a bit of academic know-how and dumb luck?
That was… charming. Harmless. Almost funny.
After all, luck can't be taught, repeated, or weaponized.
No one envies luck. No one fears it.
As Alan glanced around at the students' shifting expressions — from awe to realization, then to sympathetic understanding — he knew he'd done it.
He had extinguished the blazing fire of fame before it could consume him, and with precision worthy of a master strategist, redirected every rumor, every whisper, into the image he wanted most:
Not a hero.
Not a prodigy.
But a fortunate theorist.
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