Although Penelope had, in reason, accepted Alan's proposal, her heart still felt as though gripped by an invisible hand—each beat pumping out cold, biting anxiety.
A formal warning from the Ministry of Magic.
The words echoed in her mind again and again, like a scar that would never heal, foretelling an ugly blemish forever staining her spotless record as a model student.
"Just explaining it to the Headmaster may not be enough."
Her voice carried a faint tremor, one she herself hadn't noticed. The towering bookshelves of the library cast long shadows that engulfed her figure. She paced restlessly between the rows, like a beast trapped in a cage. The sharp, hurried rhythm of her heels striking the floor was the outward beat of her frantic thoughts.
"The Ministry bureaucrats… they're stone, they're ice. They rarely admit they're wrong."
"Which is why we cannot simply explain."
Alan's voice wasn't loud, but it struck like a perfectly tuned pitch, instantly calming the chaotic vibrations in the air. He sat composed at the heavy oak desk, a fine sheet of parchment spread out before him. His quill, freshly dipped in ink, hovered in readiness.
In the depths of his mental palace—the grand structure built of countless logical nodes and streams of information—an intricate strategy titled Crisis Management was assembling itself at a speed beyond ordinary comprehension, sharpening, completing, locking into place.
"Explaining is a passive stance," Alan lifted his eyes, calm and utterly steady, "It means we place judgment entirely in their hands. What we must do, instead, is take the initiative."
The tone of his words carried a peculiar authority, something incongruous with his age. It wasn't a student discussion he was leading, but a business negotiation deciding the fate of an enterprise.
"Senior Penelope, let's review. From your statement just now, the Ministry's accusation is based solely on a faulty Trace detection. Correct?"
"Yes—yes, of course!" Penelope nodded at once.
"In that case, their action constitutes what, in legal terms, is an administrative error." Alan's voice wasn't hurried, but each word landed with weight. "For a top student—a Ravenclaw prefect soon to graduate—such a baseless accusation has caused clear harm to your personal reputation and mental state."
"Reputation and… mental harm?"
Penelope stopped pacing. The phrase struck her mind like a bolt of lightning, slicing through the chaos. She had never thought of it that way. Until now, all she'd considered was how to clear her name, how to have the warning revoked. She had never once thought—she was, in fact, the victim.
"Of course." Alan's gaze cut through the dusty beams of the afternoon sun, straight to the heart of the matter. "Therefore, the central demand of our reply must not be to beg them to rescind the warning. That would be far too submissive. What we demand is a formal written apology—for the severe consequences brought about by their negligence."
The quill in his hand moved.
Black ink flowed across the pale-yellow parchment, forming an impregnable fortress of logic.
"First, state the facts clearly: when, where, and under what circumstances you were falsely accused. Time, place, event—laid out in the most objective, emotionless language possible."
"Second, emphasize the consequences: point out explicitly how this administrative blunder would leave an irreversible stain on the academic record of an outstanding underage student. And how it might inflict long-term negative effects on her mental health. The wording must be stern, but the tone restrained."
"Third, set forth precise demands: that the Head of the Improper Use of Magic Office personally sign an official apology, and that it be formally confirmed in writing that no trace of this incident will remain in your personal record."
Alan paused after writing down the three points, then added the final, decisive strike.
"Lastly," he looked up at Penelope, calculation flickering in his eyes, "we attach my statement along with a copy of my Hogwarts acceptance letter as evidence. We direct all responsibility onto me—the 'ignorant, curious first-year student attempting magical exploration.'"
The combination flowed seamlessly, a closed loop of logic.
What had been a student's passive appeal instantly escalated into a formal accusation of administrative negligence. The ball was hurled back at the Ministry in the hardest possible manner. They now faced not some easily dismissed underage witch, but a well-founded case that could, at any moment, spread through the Daily Prophet into a public scandal.
Penelope stared blankly at the draft parchment.
The tightly reasoned, sharp wording on the page seemed less like sentences than like a flawless incantation. She had thought the best outcome would be the Ministry taking pity and revoking that damned warning.
She had never imagined that this boy, several years her junior, had aimed instead to make the lofty Ministry of Magic lower its arrogant head—and apologize.
With Alan's near hand-in-hand guidance, Penelope at last completed a letter so professional, so forceful, that she could hardly believe it had come from her own quill.
Alan, for his part, also wrote a letter to Headmaster Dumbledore. In it, he objectively laid out the entire sequence of events, in the simplest, most emotionless terms. He calmly admitted his "violation," and included his contact information, stating his willingness to answer any inquiry at any time.
Two days later.
Alan once again saw Penelope in the same corner of the library.
But this time, there was no relief in her eyes—only a shadow of exhaustion, tinged with despair. Her fingers trembled as she held out a slip of parchment.
"They responded," she whispered.
Alan accepted it. He felt the rough texture between his fingers, noted the frayed edges and the uneven weight of the ink.
He had expected precision, order, inevitability. Yet even before unfolding it, he could sense the negligence seeping from the page—proof that human arrogance could shatter logic as easily as parchment under flame.
The Ministry had chosen laziness over truth. Power over justice.
Something shifted in his mind. A new module began to take shape, glowing faintly in the depths of his mental palace: Rules and Applications.
Rules, he realized, were not shackles. They were tools. But tools wielded by flawed hands bent them into mockeries of justice.
If one wished for order to hold, it was not enough to follow rules. One had to force the world to obey them.
Alan set the slip gently back into Penelope's hands. His voice was calm, but absolute.
"This isn't finished."