"Imagine that scene for a moment."
"When Professor Snape once again tries to use his masterful Legilimency to invade our minds, what he sees won't be our boring thoughts about Quidditch or homework."
"What he'll see is the face of Gilderoy Lockhart, winking at him, smiling wide enough to show exactly eight teeth."
Alan's voice dropped lower, carrying with it a devilish allure.
"Do you think his noble, gloomy, Gothic-styled mental world could possibly withstand that level of mental contamination? Once, twice, maybe. But every day, every class, every time he tries to make trouble for us… what greets him is that glittering Lockhart grin?"
What began as nothing more than a spontaneous joke mocking Lockhart—an absurd conclusion born of absurd logic—
…strangely drew the Weasley twins into ten full seconds of eerie silence.
The air seemed frozen.
The smiles vanished from their faces, replaced by an unprecedented seriousness, nearly solemn in its intensity.
They exchanged a glance.
In that instant, without words, a shared understanding passed between them—an ultimate comprehension of mischief, born deep in their blood, transferred at the speed of light.
And then, in their eyes, two flames slowly ignited.
Not ordinary flames, but ones mixed with revelation, ecstasy, and raw creative desire—like alchemists stumbling upon the Philosopher's Stone.
"Al…"
Fred's voice trembled with sheer excitement as he gripped Alan's shoulder tightly, as if to confirm this wasn't a dream.
"You… you're a genius!"
"Exactly!" George slapped his thigh with a crack, leaping straight from his chair, pacing the room with his hands tangled in his hair, looking like he might explode from inspiration overload.
"This is… this is the perfect idea for mental assault! It's the highest form! The most elegant! The most vicious prank ever!"
They had actually taken the joke seriously.
No—that wasn't quite it.
They had elevated it. To them, it wasn't just a joke. It was a prophecy.
The very next day, they sprang into action, with unnerving efficiency.
They pinpointed their target: an older Hufflepuff girl who was utterly obsessed with Lockhart—her bed was said to be covered in photos of him, a literal "wall of smiles."
With just three freshly bought Fizzing Whizzbees still crackling with sparks from Honeydukes, they struck a deal—trading for an eight-inch magically signed photo of Lockhart himself.
In the photo, Lockhart wore a robe of forget-me-not blue, his blond hair shining under enchanted lighting. He faced the camera, flashing his trademark eight-tooth grin that made witches squeal.
At once, the twins dove eagerly into "magical upgrade" research in a corner of Gryffindor Tower.
The photo was laid flat on an open copy of Advanced Potion-Making, as though it were about to undergo delicate magical surgery.
"I think we could cast a faint Confundus Charm on it," Fred whispered fervently, his eyes ablaze. "Not to confuse the viewer, but to give the photo itself a 'cognitive distortion,' so that Lockhart's smile looks even more… penetrating, more entrancing!"
"Brilliant!" George chimed in at once. "And we could add a Voice Charm! Make him speak every five minutes, in that narcissistic, oily tone of his: 'Always remember to smile!'"
"No! Once isn't enough!" Fred countered. "It should be random! Lines straight from his books! Like—'My smile once shamed a banshee into abandoning her wail.'"
"Add one more!" George's eyes shone ever brighter. "A miniature, directional Flash Charm! When someone stares at him too long—bam! His teeth gleam all at once! Just like in the advertisements!"
Back and forth they went, layering idea after idea, planning that in the next inevitable "incident of chaos"—say, Peeves blocking another corridor—they would, unseen and unnoticed, hang this "extensively upgraded" Lockhart photo right inside Snape's office.
Their objective was crystal clear.
What they sought was nothing less than a strategy of sustained mental contamination.
Watching the twins' eager faces—like they were embarking on some grand endeavor worthy of history books—Alan could only shake his head in helpless resignation.
He leaned against the window, gazing at the gloomy sky outside, and decided not to interfere with these two mischief artists who had already gone completely mad.
All he had done was plant a single seed.
Whether that seed would grow into a tree of joy bearing apples, or a Devil's Snare that devoured sanity—
…was no longer within his control.
~~----------------------
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