In the final week before the start of term at Hogwarts, Alan was practically welded to the community library.
The mingled scent of old parchment and wooden shelves had become his most familiar backdrop. He wasn't lost in stories—rather, like a ravenous miner, he delved through nearly a decade's worth of business journals and scientific papers, extracting the "data ore" he needed to refine the core model of his Mind Palace.
That afternoon, sunlight slanted through the tall windows, slicing bright paths through the air, where motes of dust drifted lazily. The reading area was nearly empty, so quiet one could hear their own heartbeat.
Today, his target was a long out-of-print volume: Prospects in Cutting-Edge Technology.
Its gilt lettering on the spine glimmered faintly at the very top of the shelf—a height unreachable even with the rolling ladder, as if mocking the pull of gravity.
Alan glanced around, confirming the reading area was deserted.
At once, a daring node lit up on the logic tree of his mental palace: silent, wandless casting.
This was the perfect, absolutely safe testing ground.
His mental power tightened into focus. Magic gathered at his fingertip, silent under the force of his will. His eyes locked onto the journal, while in his mind the rune structure of the Levitation Charm was being simulated and constructed with astonishing precision.
At the top of the shelf, the heavy periodical gave a faint, nearly imperceptible tremor.
It shifted.
Only for a heartbeat—then fell utterly still again.
The magic dissipated.
Failure.
But Alan's lips curved ever so slightly. The fluctuation had occurred. This was the breakthrough from nothing to something.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"
The voice was crisp, yet carried an uncompromising severity. Like a needle, it pierced the silence of the library.
Alan turned.
A girl half a head taller than him stood a short distance away, her brows knit. Dark, thick curls framed her face, her nose high-bridged—and then, as his gaze lowered, there it was: the badge on her chest, engraved with a bronze raven.
The data was logged. In an instant, his mind palace completed the match and retrieval.
Ravenclaw.
And just as his conclusion was drawn—suddenly, chaos struck.
Snap!
Without warning, the nearest window was struck open by an invisible force, the glass groaning in protest.
A gray owl burst inside like a miniature whirlwind, wheeling sharply through the air. The gust from its wings tangled the girl's curls, and then—precisely—a letter sealed with hard parchment and red wax dropped straight down.
It landed softly at her feet.
Startled, the girl staggered back half a step, then bent to pick it up.
The moment she cracked the seal and drew out the letter, Alan clearly saw the blood drain from her face, leaving her deathly pale.
The very next instant, the pallor was overtaken by a furious flush.
"You idiot!"
Her voice sharpened, trembling with anger as she shook the thin letter in her hand.
"Look what you've done!"
She spat the words at Alan, each one squeezed out between clenched teeth.
"A formal warning letter from the Ministry of Magic! They're accusing me of using magic in a Muggle neighborhood! I haven't touched my wand all summer!"
Her mind had already pieced it together.
That failed attempt Alan had just made—the faintest trace of uncontrolled magical fluctuation—had been caught by the Ministry's ever-watchful Trace. And since she was the only of-age witch in the area, the blame had naturally fallen on her shoulders.
Her name was Penelope Clearwater. Alan's mental palace recalled the entry at once: Ravenclaw upper-year student, prefect. A girl who prized honor and a flawless record above all else.
To her, a warning from the Ministry was not merely a letter. It was a blot—huge and ugly—on what should have been a spotless file.
Her fury burned away reason. With a sudden step forward, Penelope lunged, shoving hard at Alan's shoulder.
But her palm met only air.
Alan's body seemed free of inertia. Just as she struck out, he slipped half a step aside, neat and effortless, leaving her momentum to carry her forward.
Penelope staggered, nearly losing her balance.
"I'm sorry."
Alan spoke at last. His voice was soft, yet preternaturally steady—so calm it jarred against the tense atmosphere around them.
"This matter truly is because of me. Although I didn't succeed in casting any spell, the magical fluctuation was real. I am willing to accept full responsibility."
His honesty, his calm, the unwavering look in his eyes—together they doused her rage, if only for a moment.
"Responsibility? How will you take responsibility?"
Her voice was still sharp with anger, but it had shifted—from pure venting to interrogation. She now looked him over again: the boy, smaller and slighter than her, who appeared to be only a new first-year.
"You're a Hogwarts student too?"
"Yes."
Alan nodded, expression unchanged. He continued in that same precise, measured tone:
"I believe the most rational course of action is for us to write to Headmaster Dumbledore at once and explain the entire situation."
He paused, then added with perfect clarity:
"I will state every detail truthfully, and include my Hogwarts acceptance letter as proof of identity. I am confident the Headmaster will make the fairest judgment."
Penelope froze.
She had expected denial, fear, tears, even a panicked attempt to flee.
She had not, for one moment, imagined that this first-year boy—who had just landed her in such a disaster—would not only remain unshaken, but within seconds present a solution that was clear, logical, and utterly watertight.