Back home, the afterglow of excitement was still coursing through everyone's veins.
The living-room carpet had become a gallery of wonders: the family spread their spoils from Diagon Alley across the floor, and the air filled with a unique scent—a blend of fresh parchment, strange herbs, and dust-laden history.
Lilia knelt on the floor, chin cupped in both hands, completely bewitched by the brass cauldron. It needed no fire and no supervision; the liquid inside stirred of its own accord, rising in gentle spirals as though an invisible apothecary were at work within.
Robert, for his part, was utterly absorbed in a hefty picture book titled Quidditch Through the Ages. His fingers were rough but turned the pages with extreme care, as if fearful of disturbing the figures printed there. Wizards on broomsticks chased one another in silent pursuit across the yellowed paper, while the Golden Snitch flashed as a thin streak of gold from one page to the next.
The true source of chaos, however, was the deliberately neglected Monster Book of Monsters.
Alan took it from the shopping bag and—eschewing Hagrid's advice to stroke the spine—set it face-down, lightly, on the oak floor.
A breath of stillness.
The next second, the book sprang up, the brown, furred cover heaving. Using its heavy pages like jointed legs, it "stood" with clumsy speed; two metal clasps clicked apart like a beast baring its fangs.
"It's alive!" Lilia squealed, a sound equal parts terror and delight.
The book locked onto the nearest target—Lilia's ankle—and charged with a sharp corner first. It careened across the floor, paper rasping and the spine thudding open and shut.
A family chase scene erupted.
Lilia laughed and leapt onto the sofa. Robert tried to block with his foot, only for the book to take a vicious "bite" out of his shoe tip, making him hop in pain. Carla was nervous at first, but the ridiculous spectacle soon had her leaning against the wall, doubled over with laughter.
The farce forcefully refreshed the family's sense of the wizarding world. It was not always elegant and mysterious; it could also be primitive, a little dangerous—and slapstick.
"All right, you little monster!"
At last, Robert dug an old leather belt out of the toolbox and, timing it just right, trussed the still-struggling book nice and tight. It let out a muffled, indignant whine and was tossed into a corner.
Peace returned to the living room—save for the family's quickened breathing and the laughter that hadn't quite faded.
Wiping sweat from his brow, Robert turned, eyes shining at his son. Expectation drowned out everything else.
"All right, Alan," he said, his voice a little hoarse with excitement. "Now show us some real magic. Can your wand give us a proper demonstration?"
At that, every other sound in the room vanished.
Lilia froze mid-frolic; Carla straightened. Every gaze settled on Alan, a weight you could almost feel.
Alan didn't move immediately. He could feel the mixture in their eyes—curiosity, anticipation, and the faintest thread of tension.
His mind palace roared to life.
For a first demonstration before his family, the choice mattered.
Something flashy? Fireworks, perhaps? No— that would make magic seem like a toy, eroding the reverence he needed to instill and tempting them to try things they shouldn't.
Something aggressive? Absolutely not. That would plant seeds of fear and raise an invisible wall at home.
What he needed was utility.
An undeniable, everyday usefulness—something that showed absolute control.
Only then could he establish, in their minds, the first impression that "magic is rigorous, like a science, not a casual trick," and secure his standing as the "sole expert."
Conveniently, amid the earlier commotion, Lilia had knocked a glass off the side table with her knee when she jumped onto the sofa. The clear chime of breaking had been swallowed by laughter. Now, those glittering shards lay scattered across the dark carpet—like a handful of fallen stars.
Perfect material.
"Watch," Alan said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried to each of them cleanly.
From the inner pocket of his robe, he drew his thirteen-inch ash wand. The wood was smooth with a faint chill, as if it held a sleeping power.
Everyone held their breath.
Alan lifted the wand, its tip leveled at the small mess on the carpet.
He did not speak the incantation at once.
Deep in his consciousness—in that grand palace, everything about Reparo was being deconstructed and rebuilt.
A precise curve for magical output: a gentle initial infusion, a mid-stage peak for bonding, and a smooth taper at the end, each control node quantified.
The path the wand tip must trace: a tiny, intricate three-dimensional sigil, sketched again and again in virtual space, correcting angular deviations down to the millisecond.
A mental-guidance model fanned out like a neural network, ensuring every filament of will wrapped exactly around the corresponding shard, so that not a single piece would be missed or misplaced.
[Virtual Simulation Initiated…]
[Trial #1: Success Rate 73.4%. A 0.1 mm misalignment detected at the joint; structural strength decreased by 12%. Failed.]
[Trial #37: Success Rate 91.2%. Magical output curve displayed irregular spikes, causing tiny bubbles within the cup's wall. Failed.]
[Trial #158: Success Rate 99.9%… Model stabilized.]
In the outside world, only a moment had passed, yet within his Mind Palace, Alan had already run through hundreds of simulations.
Only when that cold, mechanical system prompt rang out did his gaze finally sharpen.
He opened his mouth and spoke a clear, steady syllable.
"Reparo!"
No explosion. No blinding flash.
A soft, almost tangible milky-white glow streamed from the tip of his wand. It did not scatter, but formed a precise dome of light that enveloped every shard of glass lying across the carpet.
The miracle unfolded in the very next breath.
The fragments, as though lifted by unseen hands, rose gently into the air. They did not whirl about chaotically, but rotated and aligned with mechanical precision, snapping back into place piece by piece.
"Crack… click…"
The faint sounds of matter restructuring at the molecular level echoed like heavenly music in the stillness.
The light withdrew and faded.
A flawless glass now hovered quietly in the air before descending without a sound, guided by invisible force, to settle on the table exactly where it had been before.
Its surface gleamed crystal-clear, without the faintest trace of a crack.
Precise.
Efficient.
Practical.
This unnervingly quiet scene struck far more deeply than any dazzling flare or thunderous blast. It was not a display of magic's destructive power, but of creation and restoration—control so absolute it bordered on divine.
And it revealed the immeasurable talent of the caster himself.
"Wow!"
Lillia's mouth rounded into a small "O," her eyes shining with the purest, untainted admiration—like a night sky filled with countless stars.
"Brother, you're amazing!"
She leapt off the sofa, fluttering toward Alan like a butterfly.
"I want to try too! Teach me, quickly!"
She stretched out her eager little hands, aiming straight for the white ash wand in Alan's grasp.
Alan flicked his wrist, drawing the wand back—gentle, yet firm—just out of her reach.
"No, Lillia."
His tone remained warm, but there was something within it that made her freeze at once. It was a quality that brooked no argument, a kind of authority born from an unassailable wall of knowledge.
"Magic requires an extraordinary degree of precision and control."
Alan met his sister's gaze, enunciating each word, though in truth his explanation was also meant for their parents.
"That spell—if my magical output had deviated even by 0.1%, the fragments would not have fused perfectly. Instead, they would have exploded at several times the speed of sound, scattering into a deadly cloud of glass dust."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, then spoke even more firmly:
"Or, if the channeling of my mental focus had gone astray, the shards could have fused into a jagged, spiked mass—a lethal object. Without establishing a complete, absolutely safe, and measurable training protocol, any reckless attempt could lead to irreversible consequences."
His words, so cold in their scientific rigor, fell like icy water over Lillia's excitement, dousing her heated impulses.
Her lips pouted slightly, disappointment tugging at her features. She couldn't understand most of the complex terms her brother used, but she understood the weight of words like deadly, dangerous, and irreversible.
Meanwhile, Carla and Robert were utterly shaken.
They exchanged a glance, and within it lay both fear and relief. They had thought magic to be like the stories in fairy tales—say the right words and your wish would come true. But only now, through Alan's explanation, did they glimpse the abyss of risk and complexity that lurked beneath the miracle.
Through this flawless demonstration, Alan had done more than prove his ability.
Far more importantly, he had established, within this family newly exposed to the world of magic, his own position as the sole "magical authority" and "arbiter of safety."