That treacherous trip in the corridor was like an invisible thorn, lodged deep within Alan's Mind Palace.
Though he had come away unscathed—without so much as a speck of dust on him—that single moment replayed again and again in his thoughts.
What if it hadn't been a leg stretched out to trip him, but a fist brimming with magic?
What if it had been a silent, venomous curse?
His current defensive measures—whether dodges based on physical law or the passive triggers of counter-charms—suddenly seemed fragile.
All of them only acted after the attack had already begun. They were remedies, not prevention.
What he needed was something more fundamental. More proactive.
A power that could choke malice to death the very moment it was born.
Friday, during Charms class.
The bell signaling the end of the lesson had just rung.
As students noisily packed away their books, Alan remained seated. His eyes were fixed on the small figure standing on tiptoe, lifting a stack of ten heavy tomes onto a high shelf.
Professor Filius Flitwick.
He waited until most of the class had trickled out before rising to his feet and walking over with measured calm.
"Good afternoon, Professor."
Alan's voice wasn't loud, but it cut cleanly through the off-key humming Flitwick had been making to himself.
"Oh? Mr. Scott, what new idea have you come up with this time?"
Professor Flitwick turned with delight, his tiny body peeking out from behind the pile of books, an expectant smile on his face. For this student who always brought astounding ideas, his curiosity was endless.
"Yes, Professor."
Alan's expression carried not a trace of jest. His eyes were focused, serious, as if weighing a matter of life and death.
"I've recently been thinking about a question regarding defensive charms, and I wanted your opinion."
He paused, organizing the radical concept in his mind.
"All of the defensive spells we've studied so far—for example, the Shield Charm—their function is to block a tangible, physical attack.
An object in flight, or a curse once it's already formed."
His voice dropped lower, each word carrying a strange weight.
"But what I want to ask is this: in the magical world, is it possible for a spell to exist… whose purpose isn't to block the attack itself, but to block the malice that gives birth to that attack?"
The smile froze on Flitwick's face.
He stood straighter, and the lighthearted atmosphere evaporated at once—leaving behind a silence so sharp it could cut.
Alan did not stop; he had to articulate this thought fully.
"A shield that acts upon concepts, not entities.
For example—when someone forms the intent to attack me, this shield would activate automatically.
It wouldn't need to deflect the flying curse, nor parry the incoming fist.
It would act directly on the attacker's mind—
making him temporarily forget his intent to strike."
"Dismantling an attack at its very root."
These words fell like a bolt of silent lightning, splitting open the seemingly unshakable edifice of modern spellcraft, revealing beneath it a foundation ancient, chaotic, and unexplored.
The smile on Flitwick's face was gone completely.
His lips parted slightly, and the wisdom and composure of a Charms Master were now replaced by a complex expression—shock, awe, and a solemn, heavy gravity.
Magic that acted upon concepts.
Defense against intent itself.
This was no longer the realm of spellcraft.
It was… the domain of gods.
The classroom was terrifyingly silent, broken only by the faint whistling of the wind brushing past the castle spires.
"Scott…"
Flitwick had been silent for so long that Alan wondered if his idea was too outrageous, if he had already offended the professor.
Finally, Flitwick spoke. His voice was hoarse, as though dredged from some long-unused organ.
"This idea you've proposed is very… very bold."
He hadn't used words like "absurd" or "impossible." He had said "bold."
"As far as I know, in the modern system of charms, there is no such spell that can directly defend against intent."
The words landed like a bucket of cold water, but Alan's expression did not fall.
Because he had caught the hidden turn in Flitwick's phrasing.
"But…"
Sure enough, Professor Flitwick's tone shifted. In those eyes that had been hollow with shock a moment ago, a faint gleam returned—a glimmer of reverence for ancient knowledge.
"In your description just now," Flitwick said softly, his voice tinged with memory and yearning,
"it reminded me of a certain technique, one that existed in ancient magic, though I have only seen fragments of it in old texts."
"It was called an 'Intent Sigil.'
"That was a powerful form of magic, capable of taking a wizard's purest 'intent'—such as protection,confusion, or guidance—and inscribing it, through special runes, directly onto an object, or even onto a person."
Flitwick seemed lost in visions of that vanished age, his small hands sketching shapes unconsciously in the air.
"The inscribed 'intent' would form a passive, permanently active magical field. It didn't rely on the caster's constant focus, but existed naturally, like breathing—carrying out that primal instruction forever."
"But…"
A sigh pulled the vision back to reality.
Flitwick shook his head with regret, the reverent light in his eyes dimming.
"Sadly, this formidable art was lost entirely centuries ago.
"Now, perhaps only in the oldest texts on alchemy could you find the faintest scraps of reference to it."
When Alan turned, he was greeted not by Flitwick's solemnity, but by George's wide-eyed "pure" look, burning with curiosity.
Alan could only stare at him with the expression one might reserve for observing a rare, particularly dim magical creature—equal parts pity, confusion, and reluctant awe at its persistence.
"George," Alan said evenly, his tone imbued with the kind of scientific authority that brooked no argument.
"From a biochemical perspective, slug slime is composed mainly of glycoproteins and water. Its only function is to form a gel network that retains moisture.
"All it can do is make your hands very, very sticky. Beyond that—especially in terms of interpersonal relationships—it has no use whatsoever."
He paused, his gaze lingering on George for a moment, as though making sure his brain had managed to process the last statement.
"And if you really try using it on a girl, I can guarantee the only result you'll get is a loud slap—one accelerated by the laws of physics."
This absurd tangent, like a pebble tossed into the lake of his Mind Palace, sent ripples spreading outward—touching on something unexpected.
Snape.
Legilimency.
In Alan's archives, the entry on Snape's dark, piercing, and invasive mind-reading sat side by side—strangely—with another record labeled "Gilderoy Lockhart," adorned with gaudy golden flourishes.
One represented the extreme of invasive mental penetration.
The other, the extreme of nauseating sensory pollution.
And from this pairing, a brand-new, ominous idea sparked in Alan's mind.
Half-joking, he said to the twins:
"Come to think of it, if we follow the ridiculous logic in Lockhart's book, defending against Professor Snape's constant 'mind intrusion' wouldn't really require us to master any complicated Occlumency at all."
"What would it take then?" Fred leaned forward immediately, curious as a cat about to pounce on a ball of yarn.
"Very simple."
Alan's lips curved slowly into a smile so wicked it seemed etched into his very bones.
"All we'd need to do is hang a giant, signed magical photograph of Lockhart himself—right in Snape's office, or on his classroom lectern."
He didn't give the twins a chance to react. At once, in a vivid and deliberately dramatic tone, he began to paint that scene before their eyes.
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