After sitting down amid thunderous applause, Alan did not, like the other first-years, lift his head to admire the enchanted ceiling that mirrored the night sky, nor did he spare much attention for the thousands of candles floating in the air.
His focus was pure, direct—fixed on the gleaming golden plate before him.
Roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, bacon, steak… food appeared out of thin air, piling up like a mountain. He picked up knife and fork, his movements precise and efficient, systematically working through the caloric resources before him.
At that moment, Albus Dumbledore stood up.
The lively noise of the Great Hall died instantly.
The legendary Headmaster's opening remarks were, as always, brief, peculiar, and bordering on nonsensical. But when he swept his half-moon spectacles across the room, eyes twinkling, and spoke his final warning, Alan's hand paused for a fraction of a second as it sliced into his steak.
"…Just a reminder, the corridor on the right-hand side of the fourth floor is strictly forbidden to all students this year."
His tone was gentle, yet carried an unquestionable authority, reaching every ear with perfect clarity.
"Anyone who wishes to die a particularly painful death, by all means, go ahead…"
A faint tension rippled through the air. Many first-years instinctively swallowed hard, fear etched clearly on their faces.
But in Alan's mental world, the words slid in like a key into a lock that had long been waiting.
His mind palace activated in an instant.
Countless streams of data collided and converged in his consciousness. One piece of intelligence, tagged [High Priority], was retrieved from storage. It was a small article he had noticed during the summer, tucked away in an obscure corner of the Daily Prophet.
[Gringotts Vault 713: an important item has recently been secretly transferred to Hogwarts for safekeeping.]
Two seemingly unrelated nodes of information were now connected by a blazing line of logical correlation.
[Input Variable A: High-security item transferred to Hogwarts.]
[Input Variable B: Headmaster designates a forbidden zone with a "death threat."]
[Correlation Analysis: High-level security measures typically correspond to high-level threats or high-value items. The "death threat" in B is not literal, but an unconventional encryption—a deliberate overstatement meant to emphasize the site's importance.]
A conclusion—stripped of all emotion—emerged with crystalline clarity.
The place Dumbledore warned against was the hiding place of the Philosopher's Stone.
And that kind of "too-obvious" warning was no warning at all.
It was an invitation.
A mischievous, targeted, almost provocative invitation.
He resumed cutting his steak. The faint scrape of metal against porcelain was the only outward sign of his inner activity. Inwardly, he calmly tagged the Headmaster's style of conduct with a label: [High-Level Troll].
The atmosphere of the feast soon warmed again under the comfort of food. When the plates were cleared and desserts appeared out of thin air, the House ghosts arrived as expected.
They seeped from the walls and tables, shimmering with a pearly translucence as they floated about the hall.
Gryffindor's ghost was the famous Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington—or as he was more commonly known, Nearly Headless Nick. The ornate ruffled collar around his neck struggled to conceal the grisly wound that had nearly parted his head from his body.
Many first-years stared at him with a mixture of fear and curiosity.
"Sir, did it hurt when you died?"
"What's it like being a ghost? Can you still eat?"
Sir Nicholas clearly basked in the attention, answering every childish question with elegant patience. He even attempted to tug his head off his neck to demonstrate just how "nearly headless" he really was.
Alan did not join in the commotion. He simply waited quietly, like a predator biding its time for the perfect hunting opportunity.
Only when the first-years' curiosity was temporarily satisfied and the crowd began to disperse did he wipe his mouth with a napkin, stand upright, and walk over.
His steps were steady, without a hint of hesitation.
"Good evening, Sir Nick."
His voice was not loud, but it was clear enough to draw the ghost's attention.
"Oh? A new friend! Hello there, young man."
Sir Nick was always happy to converse with new students. Smiling, he floated a little closer to Alan.
Alan gave a slight nod, skipped any unnecessary pleasantries, and went straight to the point. His gaze was focused, like a scholar preparing to conduct a rigorous interview.
"I'm very interested in the nature of your existence. I have a few questions about its basic physical properties that I'd like to ask you."
Sir Nicholas froze.
Physical properties?
That combination of words was far too unfamiliar to him.
"Go on," he said, maintaining his noble manners.
"My first question." Alan's tone was calm and even. "Can you be obstructed by physical barriers, such as a wall or a closed door?"
This one was still within Nick's range of understanding.
"Of course not, I can pass straight through them," he replied proudly, even demonstrating by sliding his hand through the stone pillar beside him.
"In that case," Alan's line of reasoning extended smoothly forward, "my second question. Does your existence cause any measurable change in the local air temperature where you appear? If so, approximately how many degrees Celsius?"
"Uh…"
The question struck him like an invisible arrow straight into a blind spot of his knowledge. His translucent eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
"I… I do feel a little cold, but as for an exact number…"
He had never considered that "cold" might require a numerical definition.
Alan didn't wait for him to fumble for words. His thoughts, like precise interlocking gears, had already clicked into the next stage.
"My third question."
He lifted his eyes, locking them directly onto Sir Nick's equally translucent gaze.
"What is the maximum amount of force you can exert on physical objects, measured in newtons? For instance, can you lift a sheet of parchment, or push open an open book?"
Newtons?
What was that? Some Muggle's name?
This string of unheard-of, bizarre terms—like words from another world—left Sir Nicholas' proudly translucent chin practically about to fall off his already precarious neck.
He stared in astonishment at this first-year before him. In his long ghostly life, he had been feared, admired, mocked, but never studied—never dissected with such an analytical gaze. Alan was the first.
This child was ten thousand times stranger than Peeves.
The Great Hall's clamor seemed, in that moment, to drift far away. For the first time in centuries, Sir Nicholas' mind engaged in a rapid, unprecedented whirl of thought.
After a brief spell of shock, a new emotion replaced his confusion.
Interest. A strong, unprecedented interest.
"What… what a wonderfully inquisitive question!"
For the first time in ages, there was genuine excitement in his voice. His ethereal body even seemed to grow a little more substantial in response to this novel experience.
"To be honest, I've never once thought about such things! Child, I've been a ghost for five hundred years, and you're the very first to ever ask me these questions!"
He floated around Alan in a slow circle, eyeing him as though he were some priceless treasure.
"If you're truly interested, I'd be delighted to help you conduct a few… hmm…" He searched his vocabulary for the right word. "Experiments!"
For the first time that evening, Alan's expression showed a flicker of emotion.
It was a genuine smile—unmasked and heartfelt.
"That would be an honor, Sir."
This unusual conversation with a ghost had not given him any magical knowledge, nor revealed any of the castle's secrets.
But it was something greater.
It opened up a brand-new research window—one he had never once imagined—into the true nature of this magical world.