A shrill scream, mixed with the sharp crack of breaking branches, echoed across the entire training ground.
By the time Marcus Flint was dragged out of the thicket, "disheveled" wasn't nearly enough to describe him. His cheeks bore several bloody gashes from sharp twigs, streaked with mud and cold sweat that made him look positively grotesque. His prized Nimbus 2000 had its tail twigs snapped, like a plucked rooster stripped of dignity.
Madam Hooch's fury nearly set the entire Quidditch pitch ablaze.
After a scathing reprimand, five precious emeralds vanished from the Slytherin hourglass.
As Flint was helped away by his teammates, his venomous eyes locked on Fred, and then slid toward Alan, so filled with malice it almost seemed tangible.
To most people, the matter would have ended there.
But within Alan's Mind Palace, the conclusion was different. In the logic of beasts, there is never forgiveness—only the biding of time until revenge.
By evening, the castle's corridors glowed with the warm light of wall-mounted lamps. The dinner bell was about to sound. Carrying a stack of heavy tomes, Alan chose a shortcut through the courtyard on his way to the Great Hall.
Trouble always comes when you're alone.
As he stepped onto the narrow stone path linking the courtyard to the main building, the air shifted, ever so slightly.
Three hulking figures emerged from the shadows at the side. Their robes gleamed in Slytherin green and silver. Leading them, with fresh white bandages courtesy of the infirmary plastered on his face, was Marcus Flint.
They closed in like three moving walls, sealing off Alan's path entirely.
"Good evening, our little genius."
Flint's voice was hoarse, rasping like sandpaper, his expression twisted in a sneer of naked malice.
"I hear you're good at 'calculations,' yeah?"
His gaze roved over Alan before finally fixing on the stack of books in his arms, dripping with disdain.
"Then tell me—can you calculate how many bones you'll break tonight?"
The words were barely out of his mouth when his thick, muscular right leg snapped forward in a vicious, insulting sweep—straight at Alan's ankle.
It wasn't a question. It was a declaration.
Pure, illogical, brute-force bullying.
In the 0.01 seconds they appeared, Alan's Mind Palace had already shifted into overdrive.
[Threat assessment initiated.]
[Targets: Marcus Flint and three unidentified Slytherin upperclassmen.]
[Physical advantage: Overwhelmingly in enemy's favor.]
[Environment: Semi-enclosed corridor. No witnesses.]
Response Option 1: Direct confrontation.
Simulation result: Failure. Probability of fractures 92%. Severe injury probability 45%. Rejected.
Response Option 2: Use of magic.
Simulation result: Failure. Violates school rules. Probability of being caught casting spells in the corridor on upperclassmen: 100%. Punishment: Long-term detention, loss of house points. Rejected.
Response Option 3: Call for help, yield, or flee.
Simulation result: Short-term avoidance, but exposes weakness. Predicts endless future harassment. Problem unresolved. Rejected.
Data streams flashed furiously across his mind until a single path lit up—low-risk, high-reward.
He made his choice.
Alan did not dodge.
As Flint's leg swept toward him, Alan's pupils widened in sudden terror. His body stiffened, seized as if by invisible fear, and he toppled forward like a felled log.
A perfect, textbook portrayal of being "scared stiff."
But in the instant his body tilted and balance gave way—everything changed.
The goblet of pumpkin juice he was carrying became the lynchpin of his plan.
With a barely perceptible flick of his wrist, his hand angled at a fraction too precise to be coincidence, channeling the momentum into a calculated trajectory.
The goblet slipped free, sailing through the air.
Under the warm corridor lamplight, the orange liquid traced a flawless parabola.
It landed without error.
SPLAT!
With a wet, sticky thud, the pumpkin juice exploded across the face of the largest Slytherin beside Flint.
"ARGHHH!"
The cold, slippery liquid instantly blinded his vision, while the cloying sweetness of pumpkin filled his nostrils.
The student let out a short, startled cry and instinctively staggered backward.
Behind him—stood another of his companions.
The first domino toppled.
"Bang!"
A heavy thud rang out.
The second student, knocked off balance, lurched backward and collided into the third.
And in the end, it was like a slapstick farce, a performance of black humor that had been rehearsed countless times.
Four burly Slytherin students went sprawling in a heap—limbs flailing, curses choking out, and bones smacking painfully against stone floor in a mess of groans and yelps.
The one at the very bottom was crushed so badly he let out a guttural cry of pain.
And the mastermind behind it all—Alan—simply pushed himself up off the floor with an innocent expression.
His face still carried just the right trace of lingering fear.
"Oh, heavens! I'm so sorry! I really didn't mean to!"
His voice was full of apology and panic. He even "kindly" stretched out a hand, as if intending to help the nearest student back to his feet.
"Are you all okay? It's my fault, I wasn't watching where I was going…"
Every gesture, every syllable, perfectly embodied the image of a first-year who had just been bullied and was now helpless and flustered.
The whole incident looked exactly like a ridiculous chain of accidents, all triggered by him—the innocent victim.
Flint struggled to his feet from the pile, his robes coated in dust. The freshly treated wounds from the infirmary seemed to have been tugged open again, making him grit his teeth in pain.
His entire body trembled with fury, his chest heaved violently, and his face turned a shade of liver-purple.
He glared at Alan, lips twitching, yet unable to utter a single word.
Because he knew.
He couldn't find a shred of evidence.
There was no way he could prove that this humiliating disaster—this spectacle that had left him and his companions utterly disgraced—was in fact a meticulously calculated counterattack by the boy before him, the one who still looked harmless, even pitiful, as he apologized nonstop.
~~----------------------
Patreon Advance Chapters:
[email protected] / Dreamer20