Alan was immersed in the deep sea of rune research, the light-points and lines within his mind palace ceaselessly reorganizing and calculating day and night. Yet beyond his field of vision, another vast net woven of thought had already spread quietly through the depths of Hogwarts Castle.
One key node of that net was his pen pal, Penelope Clearwater.
Penelope was almost the perfect embodiment of her House's spirit. Her thirst for knowledge was as natural as breathing, and her reverence for wisdom and truth made her resonate with Alan's subversive ideas in their letters with near-fanatical enthusiasm.
Especially Alan's series of analyses about the logical flaws in magical history — to her, they were no less than a beam of light splitting through the fog of chaos.
She began openly quoting Alan's arguments within her own House. During one of Professor Binns' ghostly-dull History of Magic discussion sessions, Penelope first put these thoughts into practice. She stood up and clearly pointed out that in the goblin rebellion he had just described, there existed an irreconcilable logical contradiction at a key event node.
Her statement was firm and resonant, her reasoning as tight and precise as a finely-crafted spell.
The speech won her low murmurs of admiration from many of the Ravenclaws present. After all, intellectual sparring was their most cherished spectacle.
But ripples of thought, once spread, inevitably strike against hard reefs.
That admiration did not extend beyond her House. Some students, staunch defenders of tradition, felt stung and offended. Among them, the most vocal was Ernie Macmillan, the prefect of Hufflepuff.
Ernie came from an old and proud pure-blood family. He was upright — one might even say rigid. To him, those hazy yet oft-repeated magical traditions were worth more than his very life.
In his worldview, Penelope's behavior was a desecration.
A mere student daring to publicly question a history passed down for a thousand years, daring to challenge a venerable professor who had witnessed that very history — this was no longer academic discussion. It was an open betrayal of the entire tradition of pure magic.
Rage burned in his chest.
A few days later, one noisy afternoon in the Great Hall, Ernie Macmillan strode purposefully through the crowd, heading straight for the Ravenclaw table. Before the eyes of hundreds of students, he denounced Penelope in a solemn, almost judicial tone.
At last, in the exalted name of defending the honor of the wizarding world itself, he challenged her to an "Honor Duel."
The moment that word left his lips, the buzzing noise of the hall froze — only to erupt the next instant into an even louder roar.
Penelope was utterly shaken.
Her fingertips were icy, her blood felt frozen in her veins. She was just a girl who loved reasoning, who enjoyed tracing truth with logic upon parchment. She had never imagined that one day, over a scholarly point, she would be forced to draw a wand and fight.
Fear seized her heart.
Crushed by the pressure, the first person she thought of was the very "mastermind" who had pulled her into this whirlwind of thought.
That evening, in a secluded corner deep within the library, the towering shelves cast heavy shadows. Penelope found Alan, absorbed in an ancient tome. Her face betrayed an anxiety she could no longer conceal.
"What should I do, Alan?"
Her voice trembled slightly, almost breaking into sobs.
"I don't want to duel him at all!"
Alan raised his head, lifting his gaze from the complex rune diagrams. After listening to Penelope's near tearful account, no sympathy or worry crossed his face. Instead, the look that appeared was the same as a chess player discovering a fascinating new position on the board.
He offered no comfort.
Instead, as though analyzing a particularly intricate puzzle of ancient runes, he tapped lightly on the table and asked calmly:
"Why does he want to duel you? What is his core demand?"
The question startled Penelope, and she instinctively replied:
"He said I 'betrayed the tradition of pure magic.' He wants to… defend honor."
"Excellent."
Alan's eyes lit up suddenly — the gleam of intellect ignited, the appraisal of a hunter upon spotting his prey.
"The key lies here. What he has challenged you to is not a battle of magic — but a battle of honor. Therefore, you must not respond to him with magic."
"Not use magic?"
Confusion overwhelmed Penelope's fear; she could not at all comprehend Alan's line of thought.
"Yes."
Alan's lips curved into a supremely confident smile. He pulled a fresh piece of parchment from his satchel and spread it across the desk.
"I'll devise for you a strategy of nonviolent resistance. In the duel, you won't need to attack — you won't even need to draw your wand."
His voice was low, but carried an unmistakable force.
"What you must do is use the logic I've taught you, step by step, to dismantle the very reasons he prides himself on for challenging you."
The quill tip dipped in ink, leaving a clear line of words across the parchment.
"You see, his entire lofty tower of logic rests upon a handful of vague concepts: honor, tradition, betrayal."
Alan tapped those words heavily with the quill point.
"These words sound grand and powerful, but in truth, they're fragile. Their only common trait is the lack of any clear, measurable definition. Your task is to force him — in front of everyone — to define them."
"He's conflated facts with opinions, and even committed a fatal circular reasoning fallacy: because tradition is sacred, questioning tradition is betrayal. I'll teach you how to seize these cracks in his logic, and strike back with the simplest, most direct questions."
Penelope's gaze was drawn irresistibly to the parchment.
What Alan wrote was neither spells nor tactical footwork, but a series of layered, progressive questions, each rooted in a chain of logical deduction. It looked less like a dueling plan, and more like an aggressive academic paper awaiting publication.
Her breathing gradually steadied.
Alan slid the ink-filled parchment across to her, his tone calm yet resolute.
"Remember, Penelope — Ravenclaw's wisdom must not stay trapped in books, locked away in the library."
"Defeat him with logic."
"That will defend true honor more than any Disarming Charm or Stunner ever could. Show them all that the power of thought far surpasses the wand."
Penelope reached out with trembling fingers, clutching the parchment tightly.
The duel was set for a Saturday afternoon.
Sunlight slanted through the latticed windows of an unused fourth-floor classroom, casting mottled shadows across the room where fine dust motes drifted in the air. The space had been cleared — desks and chairs stacked to the corners, leaving an open dueling ground.
The classroom was packed, robes of different Houses blending into a swirl of shifting color. Curious, excited, expectant whispers fused into a constant hum.
Professor Flitwick stood at the edge of the ring. His tiny frame looked nearly swallowed by the crowd of students, but his sharp, high-pitched voice carried an authority none could dispute. He would personally serve as arbiter of this duel.
At the center of the space, Ernie Macmillan already stood waiting.
His school robes were pressed to perfection, the Hufflepuff crest on his chest gleaming. He held his wand in a precise dueling stance — tip angled low, body taut, gaze sharp. The air around him radiated solemnity, the bearing of a paladin sworn to defend ancient honor, ready to face what he deemed sacred trial.
Opposite him stood Penelope Clearwater — a complete contrast.
Her hands were empty.
She stood calmly, letting the noise and scrutiny wash over her, like a rock untouched by the tides.
"Miss Clearwater, prepare yourself!"
Flitwick's piercing voice shattered the fragile tension of the standoff.
Ernie's brows knotted tightly.
In his eyes, Penelope's composure was not calmness, but naked contempt. Anger rose in his chest, burning through reason. This was an honor duel — sacred, a matter of faith!
"Clearwater!"