October at Hogwarts was imprisoned beneath ceaseless rain.
Cold raindrops tirelessly lashed against the castle's grey stone walls, seeping chill into every crack. On the windowpanes, rivulets gathered and slipped downward, distorting everything outside. The distant Quidditch pitch had utterly drowned, its once-green grass transformed into a filthy swamp of churned mud, leaving only a few bare goalposts standing silently against the leaden sky.
The oppressive mood seeped just as deeply into the Gryffindor common room.
The Weasley twins' grand project—their highly-anticipated "Smile of Lockhart" weapon of mass mischief—had, in this damp season, reached its bitter end.
The project had met its Waterloo.
A catastrophic, absolute Waterloo.
"Now!"
Fred whispered, voice trembling with suppressed excitement. His eyes were locked on the shallow dish of developing potion on the table, his face flushed red with anticipation.
Beside him, George also held his breath, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened.
Before them lay a tiny pinch of shimmering grey powder. Wrapped carefully in parchment, it was powdered Horned Serpent horn—top-tier magical material they had managed to acquire only by trading three of their latest inventions, "automatic slug polishers," to Hagrid.
With something close to religious reverence, Fred carefully sprinkled a pinch of the powder into the potion.
The instant it fell in, there was no explosion, no dazzling flash.
The potion simply… stopped moving.
What had been a clear liquid thickened within seconds, turning from transparent to a disquieting, oily shade of deep violet. A bizarre scent rose, a nauseating mixture of narcissistic daffodils and aged leather.
The twins exchanged a look—and in each other's eyes burned unrestrained zeal.
They expected a photograph of Lockhart whose smile would gleam with even more magical charm, more brilliance, more piercing power of suggestion.
George reached out with tongs, dipping into the viscous purple substance to retrieve the soaking picture.
The moment the photo was lifted, time seemed to halt for a heartbeat.
Then—
A piercing, operatic tenor voice, dramatic enough to split eardrums, exploded from the small photograph!
"Ah-ha!"
Gilderoy Lockhart had come alive.
But no longer was he the flat, handsome figure who simply flashed eight teeth and blinked his blue eyes on repeat.
A loud, gaudy, self-aggrandizing soul had been forcefully poured into the little photo.
Lockhart stretched within the frame, striking an absurdly flamboyant bodybuilder pose. His wizard robes bulged unnaturally as though stuffed with muscles he never had.
One hand on his hip, the other caressing his golden curls, he launched into a booming, melodramatic monologue that carried across the entire common room:
"…Single-handedly, bare-fisted, I defeated an entire nest of Norwegian Ridgebacks in the Scottish Highlands! Their fire could not even singe a single strand of my magnificent hair!"
In the photo, he tossed his hair with a flourish, even blowing a kiss to an invisible audience.
"…And the Irish Banshees? They wailed not in fear, but because my handsomeness reduced them to shame!"
This photograph had completely lost the subtlety and concealment necessary for a "weapon of psychological pollution."
It was no longer a hidden arrow.
It had become a blaring loudspeaker—an endless, high-volume source of pure noise.
The twins froze.
The feverish light in Fred's eyes solidified, his mouth fell slightly open, gaze empty.
George's tongs clattered to the floor, his body recoiling as though struck by the sheer volume of that voice.
This thing… was a monster.
"Quick! Earplugs—now!" Fred finally snapped out of it, shrieking as he yanked out his wand.
But the spell's flash struck the photo to no effect—it was like tossing a stone into the sea. Lockhart's piercing voice ignored all magical barriers, drilling straight into their skulls.
Before the other Gryffindor students could glare at them with mounting fury, the twins scrambled in panic, wrapping the incessantly babbling abomination in ten thick layers of soundproofing cloth.
The thing was tightly wrapped up and stuffed into the very bottom of the suitcase.
At last, the world was quiet again.
"We failed, Alan."
Fred collapsed weakly onto his bed, sprawling out with arms and legs spread wide, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. His entire being radiated the aura of someone who had lost the will to live.
"Yeah."
George let out a long sigh, plopping down onto the floor with a thud. He buried his face into his hands.
"We wasted precious Erumpent horn, and all we created was a pile of bragging trash."
Alan was standing by the window, quietly watching the drizzle outside. The streaks on the glass blurred the world beyond.
He turned around, and instead of sympathy, his face carried a faint, relaxed smile.
"I don't think this is a failure."
His voice was calm—so clear it cut through the heavy atmosphere.
The twins both lifted their heads at once, giving him a look that screamed: You must be joking.
"You just discovered, during your experiment, an unexpected magical effect—'the manifestation of sound.'"
Alan walked between them, his eyes flickering with the light of analysis.
"A magical reaction that can solidify and amplify certain mental traits into sound. That in itself is already a success."
He looked at the still crestfallen pair, his tone carrying a hint of expectation for the future.
"Speaking of which, the end of this month is Halloween."
"I've heard that the Halloween feast at Hogwarts is always full of surprises."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the two of them, and in a tone of someone who had already walked this path, issued his final verdict on the so-called 'accident.'
"Remember—every great invention, before it is truly born, must have countless so-called failures littering the road behind it. Experiments that seem laughable, unfinished, or outright failed."
"This is the only path to success."
The last weekend of October.
The noise of Hogsmeade was sealed away completely by the heavy stone walls of the castle.
The cheerful voices of the older students receded like the ebbing tide from the corridors and common rooms, leaving Hogwarts empty and silent.
The castle's breathing grew long and deep.
This silence was not dead stillness.
It was a silence full of possibility—a vacuum, cleared of all distractions.
This was what Alan had been waiting for.
His Mind Palace had long since completed modeling and simulating the flow of people through the castle. Right now, Hogwarts was at its weakest point—when security loopholes and patrol gaps were at their widest.
His goal was clear.
Not the Room of Requirement, that legendary place capable of manifesting anything—that kind of "fulfillment" was too shallow, too material.
Where he was going was the true treasury of knowledge within this ancient castle.
The Library.
[Main Quest: Construct a Mental Defense System]
This task, hanging in his Mind Palace for weeks, had its progress bar stuck in place, barely moving.
He had scoured every area accessible by legal means, and every book about Occlumency he found kept repeating the same shallow theory—
Empty the mind. Build a wall.