The reverberations of Alan's dazzling "one-move victory" in Lockhart's class were still spreading.
The word "genius" was no longer a vague compliment among second-year students, it had become a label uniquely attached to Alan Scott, complete with concrete achievements to back it up.
His learning efficiency in the following classes continued to prove this, mercilessly and consistently.
On Tuesday's Transfiguration class, the tension was palpable.
Professor McGonagall's lessons left no room for luck. The air was faintly tinged with ozone, the unmistakable scent of failed spells. Students furrowed their brows, wands pointed at the beetles on their desks, beads of sweat sliding down their temples.
The poor creatures writhed frantically in their glass dishes, their tiny legs scratching the glass with an irritating scritch-scratch.
To forcibly twist a living, resisting creature into a cold, lifeless button was a monumental task for a second-year student.
Most wands could only produce a weak spark, or worse, provoke the beetle into greater frenzy, sometimes even causing it to swell to absurd proportions.
Amid a cloud of despair and chaos, only Alan's corner remained calm, like the eye of a storm.
He didn't even look at the struggling beetle.
During the holidays, he had already run hundreds of simulations in his mind palace for every knowledge point in this lesson, anticipating every possible energy obstruction. The rune structure of the Transfiguration spell, the focus of magical intent, the energy thresholds for material transformation, all of it had already crystallized in his mind into a perfectly executable program.
He raised his wand.
There was no theatrical flourish. No smoke, no fire. Only a simple, precise movement toward the target.
A silent incantation flowed through his mind.
Magical energy surged from the wand tip with surgical precision, instantly severing the beetle's biological activity and reconstructing its material structure according to the preset template.
No bright flash. No harsh noise.
The beetle, once alive and wriggling, froze in an instant. Its deep, glossy black shell was preserved flawlessly and transformed into a smooth, lustrous texture.
A perfect black button, glowing softly, lay quietly on the desk.
The entire process was virtually instantaneous.
The surrounding students, still struggling with their own beetles, didn't even notice that Alan had finished.
But Professor McGonagall did.
Her sharp gaze swept across the room and finally rested on Alan's desk. She walked silently over and leaned down to pick up the button.
Holding it up to the light, she inspected it carefully.
Her always-strict, rigid face showed no emotion. But her thin lips pressed into an even finer line than usual.
A few seconds later, she set the button down.
"Gryffindor, ten points."
Her voice was quiet but carried clearly across the classroom, filled with unmistakable authority.
She didn't utter a word of praise, but this gesture, and the almost imperceptible nod of her head as she turned away, was the highest recognition she could give.
Alan savored this pure calm, the serene satisfaction of receiving validation through knowledge and logic.
Yet, this calm was destined to be brief.
No sooner had the Transfiguration bell rung than a small figure swept into the classroom like a whirlwind.
Professor Flitwick, like an excited child, floated over, bypassing students still packing up, and arrived directly in front of Alan.
"Alan!"
His voice was sharp and full of energy as he thrust a folded parchment into Alan's hands almost forcefully.
"Don't forget, 7 o'clock tonight, an empty classroom on the second floor of the castle!"
Professor Flitwick tiptoed and patted Alan's shoulder with enthusiasm, his eyes shining with fervor.
"Our first official activity of the 'Dueling Club'! As our specially invited 'Tactics and Theory Consultant,' punctuality is absolutely mandatory!"
Alan didn't even have time to give a proper reply.
A clear, melodious sound, as if forged from pure gold, rang out above his head without warning.
The sound cut through the classroom clamor, carrying a sense of sacred, noble magic. Every student froze in awe.
A magnificent phoenix, its plumage ablaze with gold and crimson flames, was circling above Alan's head. Its massive wings stretched wide, each feather seeming to flow with liquid sunlight, bathing the dungeon classroom in a warm, radiant glow.
Fawkes.
Dumbledore's phoenix.
In full view of everyone, the noble creature elegantly tilted its head, and a note tied with a delicate golden ribbon slipped from its claw, floating precisely into Alan's outstretched hand as if guided by life itself.
Afterward, Fawkes let out a joyful cry, tracing a dazzling arc through the air before disappearing down the corridor.
Alan unfolded the soft parchment.
A faint scent of lemon sorbet and old books wafted up.
The writing was unmistakably Dumbledore's: elegant, intricate, and slightly tilted, like a spider's web.
"Alan, if you have a moment, would you like to come by my office for tea at 7:30 tonight?
I believe we need to discuss a rather interesting letter sent to me by an irritable 'old friend' far away in Germany.
The password is: Cockroach Heap."
Alan's gaze shifted between the two invitations.
Flitwick's parchment: "7 o'clock tonight."
Dumbledore's note: "7:30 tonight."
A duel club advisory role.
A private invitation from the headmaster.
The start times for two important events were separated by only half an hour. For the first time, Alan felt a kind of pressure from this purely physical, time-management issue.
One represented an opportunity to establish influence among his peers.
The other directly connected him to the highest echelons of the wizarding world, to secrets hidden beneath the surface.
The weighing process in his mind palace was almost instantaneous.
The conclusion was obvious.
The headmaster's invitation could absolutely not be missed.
He tucked away the note, his decision made.
With no other choice, he quickly made his way to the library. Weaving through the towering bookshelves, he found Penelope Clearwater, deeply immersed in her reading in a quiet corner.
She was focused on some preparation, her eyes gliding smoothly across the pages.
"Penelope," Alan's voice was soft, carrying a hint of apology.
Penelope looked up, and her keen eyes immediately registered a question.
"I need you to do me a favor," Alan went straight to the point. "Please tell Professor Flitwick I won't be able to attend, something very important came up. I'll get there as soon as I can."
Curiosity deepened in Penelope's gaze. She knew Alan well enough to understand that anything he labeled as "very important" was never trivial.
Seeing her inquisitive look, Alan didn't over-explain. Instead, he offered his "incentive."
His tone was calm, yet the content was irresistibly compelling:
"As a thank-you, tonight I'll design a unique Dueling Tactics Analysis Model just for you, a system that can analyze different opponents' spell habits and attack patterns."
He paused, letting the concept ferment in Penelope's mind, a top Ravenclaw student, before delivering the final, decisive point:
"Trust me, it'll be more valuable than attending ten Dueling Club sessions."
The offer was irresistible.
It didn't involve money or favors; it targeted the core, knowledge, efficiency, and a higher-dimensional approach to problem-solving.
Penelope's breath caught for a moment.
Looking into Alan's calm, confident eyes, she immediately grasped the true value of this "incentive."
This wasn't just a simple favor; it was a knowledge exchange, an invitation to an entirely new cognitive realm.
Her curiosity instantly shifted to a mix of excitement and sudden clarity.
She nodded readily, accepting Alan's request.
~~----------------------
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