Alister watched Dumbledore reach for another Cockroach Cluster, the crunch of the previous one still echoing in the quiet office. He decided he couldn't sit through another bite. He needed to control the flow of this conversation before the Headmaster offered him an Acid Pop or something equally horrific.
"Headmaster," Alister interrupted, his voice cutting through the relaxed atmosphere. "What do you think about flying?"
Dumbledore paused, his hand hovering over the bowl. He looked up, a thoughtful expression replacing his delight in the candy. He opened his mouth to answer, perhaps to offer a philosophical musing or a memory of his youth, but Alister didn't let him speak. He pressed on, answering his own question with a practiced, almost rehearsed cadence.
"Flying feels like the perfect combination of adventure, freedom, and possibility," Alister said, stepping forward slightly, his green eyes locking onto Dumbledore's blue ones. "It is something that lifts you above ordinary life and lets you see the world from a new perspective."
Dumbledore slowly lowered his hand, leaving the sweet in the bowl. A gentle smile touched his lips, and the twinkle in his eyes softened.
"A beautiful sentiment, Alister," Dumbledore said softly. "Your words truly describe what most people feel when they take to the skies. The joy of shedding the weight of the world, if only for a moment."
Alister nodded, acknowledging the sentiment, but his expression hardened instantly. The poetry was just the hook; now came the logic.
"But it is not only for enjoyment," Alister continued, his tone shifting from wondrous to analytical. "It is also the most practical of all skills in daily life. In a world full of threats, the ability to move in three dimensions is paramount. It is the ultimate tool for mobility and, more importantly, for escaping all dangers. A wizard on the ground is a target. A wizard in the air is a variable."
He paused, letting the words hang in the air. He was planting the seed—that flying was a survival skill, a discipline that required rigorous training, not just a game of chasing balls. He watched Dumbledore closely, waiting to see if the old master would take the bait.
Dumbledore set aside his amusement. He shifted in his seat, sitting up properly in his high-backed chair, his expression sharpening into one of attentive curiosity.
Dumbledore said, lacing his fingers together. "I sense a proposal lurking beneath this philosophy. What, exactly, are you implying?"
Alister smiled. It was the precise opening he had maneuvered the conversation to find.
"I am implying, Headmaster, that the current curriculum is woefully inadequate," Alister stated.
He reached into the magically expanded pocket of his robes. "Flying classes are monotonous. We drift in circles, hover for a few seconds, and then we are grounded. It is a critical survival skill, yet it is taught only to first-years, and only at the most rudimentary level. We are teaching wizards to crawl when they should be learning to sprint."
As he spoke, he began to unload the fruits of his three-day sleepless binge. He placed a roll of parchment on Dumbledore's desk. Then another. Then five more.
"To master flight," Alister continued, his voice steady, "one must face resistance. One must navigate chaos."
He kept pulling scrolls from his pocket. The stack grew higher. Ten rolls. Twenty. Thirty. The pile rose past the level of the inkwell, past the level of Fawkes' perch, until it finally loomed so high that Dumbledore completely disappeared behind a wall of parchment. The Headmaster was effectively walled into his own desk.
Alister paused. He couldn't see the Headmaster anymore, just the tip of his pointed hat poking out from behind the mountain of blueprints.
He reached into his pocket one last time and pulled out a single, large drawing—the master overview. He stepped around the tower of blueprints so Dumbledore could see him again.
"This," Alister said, unfurling the drawing to reveal the intricate, geometric nightmare he had designed over the Hogwarts grounds. "Is the solution. A high-speed, three-dimensional obstacle course designed to test reflexes, precision, and spatial awareness."
He pointed to the diagram where the course spiraled dangerously around the Astronomy Tower and dipped sharply toward the Black Lake.
"This," Alister declared, meeting Dumbledore's gaze, "is what I call the Aerial Gauntlet."
The mountain of parchment on Dumbledore's desk had been dismantled. The office, usually a place of serene order, now looked like a war room. Blueprints covered every available surface—draped over the Fawkes' perch, spread across the floor, and pinned precariously to the shelves of silverware.
Alister sat comfortably in a chintz armchair, sipping a cup of Earl Grey he had brewed himself with a casual wave of his hand and a summoned tea set. He watched patiently as Dumbledore examined the structural integrity of the "Phase 3: Vertical Climb" diagram.
Hours had passed since Alister first revealed the "Aerial Gauntlet." The sun outside had dipped low, casting long, golden shadows across the cluttered room. What had started as a pitch had evolved into a masterclass.
"Fascinating," Dumbledore murmured, tracing a complex spell vector with a long, withered finger. "You intend to use a modified Switching Spell here to create the illusion of a solid wall that is actually permeable mist. But to maintain the tactile resistance... you would need to anchor it with a Conjuration."
"I calculated that a standard Conjuration would decay too quickly under wind shear," Alister replied, setting his teacup down. "So I opted for a self-sustaining Transfiguration loop using the ambient moisture of the lake."
Dumbledore looked up, his blue eyes gleaming with genuine delight. "A Transfiguration loop? At your age? That is N.E.W.T. level theory, my boy. You have a grasp of the fundamental laws of change that I haven't seen in... well, decades."
"You seem to know the subject intimately, Headmaster," Alister observed. "Your critiques are not those of a generalist."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Before I sat in this chair, Alister, I held the post of Transfiguration Professor at this school for many years. It is a subject dear to my heart."
Alister nodded slowly. That explained the sharpness of the headmaster's insights. For the past three hours, Dumbledore hadn't just been reviewing safety; he had been teaching. Every time he pointed out a flaw in Alister's magical theory, he explained the principle behind it. And every time he explained, Alister absorbed the information instantly, his mind and the System locking the knowledge away forever.
Dumbledore sat back, clasping his hands over his stomach. He looked around at the chaos of blueprints, his expression softening into one of proud resignation.
"I must admit, Alister, when you first walked in, I expected a plea for a new broomstick. Instead, you have presented me with a revolution." He smiled. "I approve. The Aerial Gauntlet shall be constructed."
Alister felt a surge of triumph, but he kept his face impassive. "Thank you, Headmaster."
"I shall have Professor McGonagall assemble a team to—"
"No," Alister interrupted, his voice firm.
Dumbledore paused, eyebrows raised.
"I want to build it myself," Alister stated. "I designed it. I know every curve, every trap, every spell vector. Handing it over to a committee would ruin the precision."
He leaned forward, his green eyes intense. "Furthermore, Headmaster, you praised my grasp of Transfiguration. This project is the ultimate practical application. I want to use it to train. If I am to master this art, I need to get my hands dirty. I will build the Gauntlet."
Dumbledore looked at him for a long moment. He saw the steely determination in the boy's eyes, the sheer, terrifying potential radiating from his small frame. A first-year attempting to terraform the school grounds was madness. But Alister Potter was clearly no ordinary first-year.
Finally, Dumbledore smiled. It was a conspiratorial smile.
"Very well," he agreed. "But it is a monumental task. You will likely encounter hurdles that theoretical knowledge cannot solve."
He picked up a quill and scribbled something on a scrap of parchment, pushing it across the desk.
"If you find yourself stuck, or if your Transfiguration requires a... delicate touch... my door is open to you. The password to the gargoyle is 'Lemon Drop'."
Alister took the parchment, tucking it securely into his pocket.
"However," Dumbledore added, sitting back in his chair, "while I approve the project, such a massive undertaking on school grounds requires the logistical oversight of the Deputy Headmistress. She will need to be informed."
He clapped his wrinkled hands together sharply.
With a loud crack, a small creature materialized in the center of the room. It had large, bat-like ears and tennis-ball-sized eyes. (these were House-elves, though to the uninitiated, they bore a passing resemblance to goblins).
"Tippy," Dumbledore said gently. "Would you be so kind as to ask Professor McGonagall to join us in my office? Tell her it is a matter of some excitement."
The elf bowed low, its long nose brushing the carpet. "At once, Headmaster!" It vanished with another crack.
A few minutes later, the heavy oak door swung open.
Professor Minerva McGonagall swept into the room, her emerald robes billowing. She looked ready for a crisis, her wand gripped loosely in her hand.
"Albus, I came as soon as—"
She stopped dead.
Her eyes swept over the office. Usually, the Headmaster's sanctum was a place of pristine order and ticking silver instruments. Now, it looked as though a paper mill had exploded inside it. Scrolls of parchment were draped over portraits, blueprints covered the floor like a carpet, and stacks of diagrams teetered precariously on every flat surface.
And sitting in the middle of this chaotic paper fortress was Alister Potter, sipping tea as if he owned the place, while Dumbledore beamed at him from behind a wall of architectural drawings.
"Albus?" McGonagall asked, her voice faint. She looked from the headmaster to the first-year student. "Alister? What on earth is going on here? Has the castle been attacked by a rogue stationery shipment?"
"Relax, Minerva," Dumbledore said, his voice calm and soothing amidst the visual cacophony of the room. He gestured grandly to the sea of parchment. "We are not under attack. Quite the opposite. Alister has presented us with a vision. A revolution in aeronautical training, to be precise."
He picked up the master overview and handed it to her. "He calls it the Aerial Gauntlet. A training course designed to push our students' flying capabilities to their absolute limits."
Professor McGonagall took the parchment, her stern expression wavering as her eyes scanned the complex diagrams. She was a Transfiguration mistress and a Quidditch fanatic; she understood exactly what she was looking at. She saw the wind-shear calculations, the structural interlocking of spell-work, and the sheer scale of the project. It was a masterpiece of magical engineering.
She lowered the parchment slowly, looking at the small, dark-haired boy sipping his tea.
"Alister," she said, her voice uncharacteristically breathless. "This... this is a high level application. The Arithmancy alone..." She shook her head in disbelief. "You have only been at Hogwarts for six weeks. How long have you been working on these designs? Did you start before you arrived?"
Dumbledore leaned forward in his chair, his blue eyes sharp. "An excellent question, Minerva. In our excitement, I neglected to ask the timeline myself."
Alister set his teacup down on a stack of blueprints for the Vertical Climb. He looked at them, his expression impassive, calculating if the truth would sound like boasting. He decided accuracy was best.
"Three days," Alister said calmly.
The silence that followed was total. The whirring silver instruments seemed to pause. The fire in the grate seemed to stop crackling.
McGonagall's mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. Dumbledore blinked, his smile freezing in place as he processed the sheer impossibility of the statement. Three days to map the castle, calculate the physics, design the obstacles, and draft the spell-work. It was a feat that would have taken a team of Ministry architects months.
Above them, on the high walls, the portraits of former Headmasters and Headmistresses, who had been feigning sleep or politely eavesdropping, suddenly woke up fully.
"Three days?" a portrait of a wizard with a red nose and an ear trumpet gasped, leaning so far out of his frame he nearly fell. "Did he say three days?"
"In all my years," a witch with a heavy wand and a heavier expression muttered from a gold frame, "I have never seen such a mind. Not even in the founders' era. The boy is a monster of intellect."
"A genius," another portrait whispered, the word echoing in the silent office. "A true, terrifying genius."
Alister sat quietly under the weight of their shock, his face neutral. To him, it wasn't genius. It was just efficient processing.
(END OF CHAPTER)
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