The sternly worded warning letter from the Ministry of Magic ultimately ended up as nothing more than a piece of scrap paper.
Once the storm had passed, only a few days remained before the start of term. Alan was finally able to enjoy a kind of family tranquility he had marked in his mind as a "scarce resource."
Most of his time was spent confined within his father Robert's study.
The air there was steeped in the mingled scent of old parchment and leather. Sunlight streamed through the mullioned windows, casting slow-moving patches of gold upon the heavy oak floor.
The only background sound was the cooing of an owl.
It would arrive precisely at teatime, bringing replies from Penelope Clearwater. Her letters always carried the faint fragrance of ink, along with the distinctive light, lively handwriting of a young girl.
"When it comes to Potions, Professor Severus Snape is the undisputed authority. But he seems to harbour a stubborn bias against Gryffindor students. Make sure your essays are long enough, Alan—the longer, the better. That's the key to scoring well."
"Professor McGonagall, who teaches Transfiguration, is extremely strict. She admires spells that are carried out with clear logic and precise steps—this subject is practically tailor-made for you!"
"To enter Ravenclaw's common room, you have to answer the riddle posed by the bronze eagle knocker. The question changes every day, but I've discovered that their types have a curious link to the astronomical cycles of the tower's star charts…"
Each piece of information was like a stream of pure data, swiftly captured and analyzed by Alan, then injected into the vast edifice in his mind known as the Mind Palace.
At the heart of the palace, a finely detailed three-dimensional model of Hogwarts revolved slowly.
When Penelope's intelligence on Snape arrived, a red warning light—marked "risk"—flashed briefly along the path between "Slytherin House" and the "Potions classroom." As for the variable "essay length," it was instantly integrated into the formula for the "optimal grade algorithm in Potions."
At the end of her letters, Penelope always tirelessly recommended that he join Ravenclaw. She would even draw a cheerful little smiley face with her quill.
"Our common room is the quietest in the entire school, and we have the very best library. I'm sure you'd love it there, Alan!"
Alan tapped his fingers lightly on the desk.
Inside the Mind Palace, two options—"Ravenclaw" and "Gryffindor"—were undergoing their final weight evaluations.
Ravenclaw: Strong academic atmosphere, suited to personal preference, abundant access to pure knowledge.
Drawback: Too far removed from the whirlpool of the main storyline; unfavourable for intelligence gathering or intervention at key moments.
Gryffindor: Reckless, impulsive, poorly disciplined.
Advantage: Equally decisive—this was the House of the "Boy Who Lived," Harry Potter. It was where Dumbledore's gaze was most keenly fixed, the nexus from which all great events would unfold.
After 0.01 seconds of computation, the weight score of "Gryffindor" emerged as the overwhelming victor.
On the planning chart, Alan circled the Gryffindor Tower in red ink.
This was not a choice made by instinct, but a cold, calculated decision based on intelligence analysis and the maximization of future gains.
"Alan, breakfast!"
His mother Carla's voice drifted up from downstairs, breaking his train of thought.
The breakfast table was always the liveliest place in the house.
Ever since their visit to Diagon Alley, Robert and Carla's curiosity about the wizarding world had been utterly ignited. They were like two children eager to explore a newly discovered continent.
"Son, how do goblin bank interest rates compare to the Muggle world? Do they have investment products?"
That was his father Robert, the bank manager, asking the same daily question.
"Alan, can magic make clothes automatically fit? Or do you have to have your school robes tailored anew every year?"
That was his mother Carla, always attentive to the details of everyday life.
As for his younger sister Lilia, she forever had only one topic.
With lips still marked by a frothy ring of milk, she whispered expectantly,
"Brother… today… today can you show me another spell? Just a little one?"
Alan gazed at his sister's clear eyes, in which his own reflection gleamed. In his Mind Palace, the module marked "Family" sent back a warm current of data.
"Alan, are we still going to the British Museum today?"
Carla dabbed her lips with a napkin as she spoke.
"Perhaps," Alan replied, "we can make a more interesting plan."
At once, his eyes caught the spark that lit up in Lilia's gaze.
He laid down his knife and fork, leaning forward slightly, his tone carrying a hint of mystery.
"I bought a book in Diagon Alley—Magical Home Baking. There's a recipe for a dessert that sounds rather interesting… 'Surprise Exploding Pudding.'"
"Exploding?" Robert's eyes lit up.
"Surprise?" Lilia leapt excitedly from her chair.
The proposal won unanimous approval.
In an instant, the Scott's family's kitchen transformed from an ordinary cooking space into a magical laboratory brimming with wonder and uncertainty.
The whole family gathered eagerly around the central counter.
Alan assumed the role of chief conductor.
He spread open the old magical cookbook. Its pages turned of their own accord, reciting the recipe aloud in a rhythmic, cadenced tone.
"First, take three runic serpent eggs—their yolks will give the pudding a dreamlike golden glow."
"Next, add one pound of levitating sugar powder. Take care—stir counterclockwise, or the sweetness will dissipate."
Alan was in charge of these crucial magical steps. His movements were precise and steady, like a surgeon performing delicate operations.
Meanwhile, Robert, Carla, and Lilia busied themselves with the more ordinary baking ingredients they understood—flour, milk, and fresh raspberry jam.
The kitchen filled with laughter, chatter, and a touch of cheerful chaos.
The problem arose with a magical ingredient known as Jumping Bean Powder.
The recipe's description read: "Add it to give the pudding a lively, dancing sensation upon the tongue."
Alan carefully measured the standard dose with a silver spoon, then tipped it into the large glass mixing bowl.
The batter only let out a few lazy bubbles.
"That's it?"
Robert peered in, his face tinged with disappointment.
"I thought it would actually start hopping about. That doesn't seem very… lively."
While Alan turned to fetch his wand, Robert—finding the result underwhelming—snatched up the pouch of Jumping Bean Powder and secretly tossed in two heaping spoonfuls.
He even winked slyly at Lilia.
At last, everything was ready.
Alan mixed all the ingredients thoroughly. The batter now glowed with an enticing, flowing golden sheen.
He raised his thirteen-inch ashwood wand.
The family held their breath, standing close, eyes fixed on the bowl.
Alan touched the tip of his wand gently to the center of the mixture.
"Vivisco!"
He whispered the activation charm.
The moment the spell took hold, the bowl's vibration surged wildly out of control. A magical disturbance, beyond the range of any normal chemical reaction, jolted against his senses.
Inside the huge glass bowl, the golden batter no longer bubbled gently—it churned violently, madly, swelling with massive air pockets that burst with urgent glug-glug sounds.
"Back!"
Alan's pupils contracted sharply. He yanked Lilia behind him in the same instant.
His warning had barely left his lips—
BOOM!
A deafening yet muffled blast resounded.
The pudding mixture, no longer content with mild bubbling, erupted like an awakened miniature volcano. It spewed upward in a thick, molten dome, arced through the air in a sticky parabola, and exploded overhead.
Fortunately, the "explosion" carried no physical force.
Its only "weapon" was a barrage of flying, gooey, fragrant cream, jam, and pudding batter.
The kitchen fell into eerie silence.
Time seemed to move in slow motion.
Alan clearly saw a glob of strawberry jam drifting lazily toward his father's forehead, while a long ribbon of cream draped itself across his mother's hair like some newfangled white headdress.
The next instant, the silence shattered.
Roars of laughter thundered through the kitchen, loud enough to lift the roof.
Robert wiped cream from his face, glanced at his sticky palm, and avoided everyone's eyes before finally raising his hand in sheepish surrender, like a soldier admitting defeat.
"All right, I confess—I may have… added just a little extra Jumping Bean Powder."
Lilia didn't care in the least that she now resembled a "cream doll." She stuck out a finger, scooped some pudding from her cheek, and popped it into her mouth. Her eyes curved into delighted crescents.
"Tasty!"
She cried out happily, then licked another finger smeared with jam.
Alan gazed at the messy yet blissful faces before him—his family covered head to toe in the sticky evidence of this sweet disaster.
The tension in his nerves melted away completely.
A mixture of helplessness, amusement, and warmth trickled softly through his chest.
He shook his head, but his lips tugged upward despite himself.
With a flick, his wand was once again in hand.
"Scourgify!"
A soft white glow rippled outward from him.
A miracle unfolded.
Every trace of cream, jam, and pudding spattered on their faces, hair, clothes, and across the kitchen walls, ceiling, and floor vanished in an instant—gone without a trace.
As though it had never been there.
The kitchen returned to spotless order, with only the lingering sweet aroma left behind.
Though the pudding had been a "failure," the joyful baking experiment felt like a powerful Cheering Charm, effortlessly dispelling the sadness brought on by the looming farewell.
In Alan's Mind Palace, the memory was carefully stored and archived, marked as a top-priority treasure of warmth.
Before saying goodbye to family and stepping into the unknown life awaiting him at Hogwarts, this became his most tender, sweetest prologue.