Alan's consciousness was suspended within an invisible labyrinth.
This "Mind Maze" centered around himself; every corridor was a logical branch, and every room stored a rigorous theoretical model. He immersed himself in the pure joy of construction, shutting out the clamor of the outside world.
Meanwhile, the Weasley twins were busy discovering brand-new destructive inspiration from a casual maxim Alan had once uttered.
"Failure is the mother of success."
This phrase echoed again and again in their minds until it finally ignited the fuse for a brand-new prank.
That boastful photo of Lockhart—the problem wasn't its obnoxiousness, but its single, monotonous attack method. The twins realized it wasn't really a "mental contamination" weapon, but rather an "audio cannon" that had yet to be used to its full potential.
One pitch-black night, when everything was silent, the brothers held their breath, tiptoeing like ghosts into the depths of the dungeons. The air was damp and cold, reeking of stone walls and lake water. The bare stone wall that sealed off the entrance to the Slytherin common room exuded a chilling aura in the dark.
Fred pulled out a tube of strong adhesive from his pocket and pressed the enchanted Lockhart photograph firmly against an obscure blind corner.
The glue was sticky and pungent.
George kept watch, ear pressed against the icy ground, straining for the slightest sound from the corridor ahead.
"Not enough," Fred muttered, a grin of excitement tugging at his lips.
He raised his wand, pointed it at the photo, and silently mouthed a spell he had just learned from some mischievous upperclassmen.
"Amplifying Charm!"
A faint, almost imperceptible ripple of magic spread out.
From that moment on, the peace of the Slytherin dungeons was utterly shattered.
Gilderoy Lockhart's tooth-achingly pompous, self-obsessed monologues began to loop endlessly, twenty-four hours a day. His voice, magically enhanced, carried astonishing penetration; every syllable was dripping with exaggerated theatricality, seeping through the cracks in the stone and echoing in every dark corner.
"…They all say I am the greatest wizard of the century! Oh, personally, I think such praise is just a little too modest…"
The Slytherin students were driven to the brink of collapse.
The voice was omnipresent, like maggots burrowing into bone, invading their eardrums and twisting their thoughts. They could not find the source. Every attempt at a Silencing Charm struck only the empty stone walls, only to be mocked by Lockhart's voice returning even louder.
The incident quickly snowballed, becoming the hottest scandal at Hogwarts by the end of the month.
Time slid to October 31st—Halloween.
At the festive feast, the Great Hall shone brilliantly, decorated with thousands of floating pumpkins and candles.
Headmaster Dumbledore dabbed a few pumpkin pie crumbs from his silver beard with a napkin before standing up. Under the candlelight, his beard shimmered like spun silver.
Then he made an announcement that left everyone completely baffled.
"To better foster, between our Houses… that most precious of virtues—humor."
Behind his half-moon spectacles, those sky-blue eyes sparkled with childlike mischief.
"I have decided to temporarily lift the Silencing Charms placed upon our hardworking castle gargoyles. Let them also join in the festivities of our celebration."
At first, Dumbledore's decision did not stir much commotion; the students merely treated it as yet another of the Headmaster's eccentric whims.
However, starting the very next day, the entire atmosphere of Hogwarts changed.
A strange blend of awkwardness and peculiar merriment began to fill every corridor.
The gargoyles, which had once stood silent and imposing throughout the castle, truly started to speak.
But they engaged in no meaningful conversation.
All they did was tell stale, ancient jokes—musty relics from some forgotten century—in a monotonous, stone-grinding voice, without the slightest hint of emotion.
Alan was on his way to the library when, at a corner, one gargoyle slowly turned its dust-caked head.
"…Excuse me, do you know why a troll's nostrils are so big?"
Its hollow stone eyes "stared" at Alan, tossing out the abrupt question.
Alan's expression did not change; without sparing it a glance, he walked right past.
"…Because its fingers are too thick."
The gargoyle answered itself, then let out a hollow "ho-ho-ho" laugh, like countless pebbles rattling inside its chest cavity.
All of Hogwarts soon became overrun with this bizarre "Walking Encyclopedia of Terrible Jokes." Students went from initial surprise, to helplessness, and finally to a kind of eerie acceptance. Whenever they passed a gargoyle, they would instinctively quicken their pace—while bracing themselves for yet another wave of awkward humor.
The excitement of the Halloween feast gradually faded away.
On the way back to the Gryffindor common room, a tall figure suddenly blocked Alan's path.
It was Charlie Weasley.
"Alan."
The Quidditch Captain's face carried a trace of embarrassment, oddly out of place with his strong build.
"Our Seeker injured his wrist during the last practice," he admitted, rubbing his hands with visible unease. "And the next match is against Slytherin. You… you really can't consider stepping in as our substitute Seeker?"
His voice trailed lower and lower, until it almost became a plea.
"Just for one match. Please?"
Alan stopped, looking at him quietly. In Charlie's eyes burned a fire—a desperate mixture of hope, urgency, and determination. Alan could read Gryffindor's yearning to defeat their old rival in that gaze.
Calmly, he called upon the logical modules of his Mind Palace, swiftly assembling a flawless rejection model.
Then, he spoke.
His voice was steady, free of any ripple.
"Sorry, Charlie. My flying style relies too much on data stability and trajectory precision."
Alan's wording was textbook precise.
"It seriously lacks the randomness and unpredictability that a great Seeker must have to deal with sudden, chaotic situations."
He paused, then delivered the final, core argument.
"From the perspective of probability theory, I am not a qualified candidate."
—
On the second weekend of November, Hogwarts lay beneath a heavy blanket of lead-gray clouds.
The cold wind howled, lashing at the castle's towers, making the banners of every House snap violently in the storm.
Under this grim, battle-like atmosphere, the Quidditch season finally opened.
Gryffindor versus Slytherin.
A clash of destiny.
An eternal rivalry.
Alan did appear at the pitch that day—
But he did not wear the crimson-and-gold uniform of Gryffindor, nor did he mount any broomstick.
Instead, he was wrapped in a thick black coat, its collar raised high to conceal half his face, leaving only his deep, shadowed eyes exposed under the dim sky.
He sat calmly, right beside Gryffindor Captain Charlie Weasley.
A special seat had been prepared just for him—
A role never before seen at Hogwarts.
The "Coach's Seat."