The shadow of the final exams hung heavy over the pointed spires of Hogwarts Castle.
Even the damp air seemed filled with a suffocating tension that refused to disperse.
The fire crackling in the Gryffindor common room hearth could not drive away the chill pressing on every student's heart.
Professor Quirrell's early departure had struck the school like a stone dropped into a still pond—the ripples were far from settling.
And the news that Professor Snape was to take over Defence Against the Dark Arts came crashing down like a sudden hailstorm, leaving everyone reeling.
The gloom grew ever thicker.
"We're doomed! The curse on the Defence Against the Dark Arts position must be real!"
Seamus Finnigan's voice trembled with a near-breaking pitch; his face was pale, and genuine fear flickered in his eyes.
"Look at Professor Quirrell—he barely lasted a year before having a complete mental breakdown!"
His outburst was like a lit fuse, setting off the panic that had already been simmering through the common room.
"My sister said the same thing when she graduated—that job's cursed for sure!"
"My dad's friend at the Ministry told him Dumbledore's been losing sleep for years over finding anyone willing to take it!"
"Oh no—next term it's Snape… what if—what if the curse gets him too? What if it spreads to us?"
The chatter grew feverish, fear and speculation snowballing into chaos.
Rumors twisted and multiplied—each more absurd and frightening than the last.
Alan sat watching his housemates, their minds seized by irrational panic, a flood of mixed emotion welling in his chest.
He slowly closed the thick tome in his hands—"Advanced Variations in Ancient Magical Runes."
The spine and cover gave a soft thump.
The sound was quiet, yet somehow decisive—
The few students closest to him instinctively fell silent and turned their eyes toward him.
Alan decided it was time to restore some calm—
in his way.
"Everyone, take a breath."
His voice was clear and steady, not loud, but it carried an unmistakable weight.
In an instant, the room fell silent enough to hear a pin drop.
Every gaze turned to him.
"As for this so-called 'curse,'" he began, sweeping his eyes across the anxious faces, "let's try looking at it from another angle—a more rational one."
"It's actually more like a combination of survivor bias and group psychological suggestion."
The two unfamiliar terms left the younger witches and wizards blinking in confusion.
Alan didn't let them linger in it. He continued, unhurried but clear:
"First, let's consider the position itself. Defence Against the Dark Arts—by name alone, you can guess it involves studying, researching, and even facing dangerous dark spells and dark wizards. Naturally, the risk is higher than teaching Potions or Transfiguration.
"It's the same as comparing an Auror to a Ministry clerk—the Auror's 'injury rate' will always be higher. That's an inherent occupational risk."
He paused, letting the idea sink in.
"And that leads to survivor bias. We only pay attention to the professors who've had something go wrong, because those stories are dramatic, memorable, and exciting to talk about.
"But what about the ones who taught safely for years, retired peacefully, or simply moved to other positions? We almost never mention them—some of us don't even know their names.
"Our memories and gossip naturally filter out all the 'safe survivors,' leaving behind only the 'victims.' It makes the danger seem infinitely greater than it really is."
Several older students, sharper in thought, began to nod slowly—the light of reason flickering behind their eyes. The panic was beginning to fade.
"Secondly," Alan went on, "there's group psychological suggestion.
"When a rumor—like a 'curse'—becomes a shared belief, it acts like an invisible phantom hovering over everyone involved: the new professor, and all of us students too.
"That belief creates a powerful mental suggestion.
"If the professor sneezes in class—'Oh Merlin, the curse is starting!'
"If he accidentally burns his hand on a cauldron—'Look! The curse is taking hold!'
"We start to interpret every trivial misfortune as proof of the curse. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. We believe, therefore we see."
His words cut like a scalpel—precise and unflinching—laying bare the irrational fear lodged in their collective mind, exposing it to the light of logic and reason.
Finally, Alan's tone grew deeper, firm, and final.
"And besides—have you all forgotten something?"
His eyes swept across them, voice gaining solemn strength.
"As long as Albus Dumbledore remains here, this castle will never fall into chaos."
"Trust me—an overly strict but sane Professor Snape is far safer than a man who had another face growing out the back of his head."
That calm, reasoned, yet utterly confident declaration—rooted in unshakable faith in Dumbledore—was like a dose of strong potion, instantly steadying Gryffindor's restless, fearful hearts.
The air in the Gryffindor common room finally became breathable again.
At the very least, everyone no longer believed they would be dragged into some vague and illusory "curse." The sense of doomsday panic that had loomed over them had completely dispersed.
Just then, the portrait hole swung open. The Weasley twins trudged in, shoulders slumped, still carrying that suffocating aura from their detention.
"It's all because of that blasted diary!"
Fred dropped into an armchair with a heavy thud, giving the armrest a furious smack.
"Not only were we stuck in detention for an entire month, we missed the last Quidditch practice! Harry and the others must be furious! There goes our chance at the House Cup!"
"This one's on the Slytherins!"
In George's eyes, that familiar gleam—the dangerous sparkle that belonged solely to a born prankster—flared to life once more.
"We've decided," he declared solemnly, "before this term ends, we're going to carry out the biggest, grandest, most legendary act of revenge Hogwarts has ever seen—against the mastermind behind that diary… in other words, the entire Slytherin House!"
Watching them switch from dejected to thrilled in an instant, Alan couldn't help but let a faint smile curl at the corner of his lips.
He knew well enough that it was impossible to "discipline" these two artists of mischief—born creators who lived for chaos.
So instead of trying to talk them out of it… why not offer a bit of technical support for their latest masterpiece?
Slowly, he bent down and drew a small, delicate glass vial from his bag. Inside swirled a dark green ink, gleaming with the deep, mossy shimmer of forest light.
He handed the bottle to them.
"Take this."
Alan gave them a knowing wink.
"Whoever uses a quill dipped in this Memory Ink within the next twenty-four hours—no matter what they intend to write…"
His voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur, laced with a mischievous grin.
"…their hand will uncontrollably write the same line over and over again—"
He paused for dramatic effect, then whispered,
"'Oh, Gryffindor, you are the glory, the spark, the one true legend!'"
Fred and George gasped in unison. In an instant, their annoyance evaporated, replaced by pure, ecstatic awe—like worshippers beholding a divine prank.
Their grins stretched nearly ear to ear, and the gleam in their eyes burned brighter than any fireworks they'd ever set off.
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