It was unlike any of the usual barn owls or tawny owls commonly seen at Hogwarts. Its feathers were jet black, gleaming with a metallic luster. Its eyes were sharp, its posture proud, and the rhythm of its wings slicing through the air carried an almost mechanical precision.
Ignoring the tempting sausages and bacon on the tables, it flew straight to its target, landing with near-military precision at the empty spot in front of Alan.
Thump.
A crisp, clear sound.
Conversations around it came to an abrupt halt.
The owl extended one leg, tied with a scroll fastened by black silk thread. It lifted its head, staring at Alan with a scrutinizing gaze, as if verifying the recipient's credentials.
Alan calmly untied the scroll.
The weight and texture of the object were extraordinary. This was not ordinary parchment; it was a tougher material, with a strange, intricate surface pattern. As he unfurled it, a line of goblin script, ornate to the point of ostentation, shimmered in a dark golden ink under the morning light.
"By this draft, you may withdraw four hundred and fifty Galleons in full at any counter of Gringotts Wizarding Bank."
No pleasantries, no embellishments—just a cold, precise, irrefutable declaration.
This magical draft from Gringotts hit like a hammer, shattering all lingering doubts and nailing the fact of "Alan's overnight fortune" firmly onto the bulletin boards of Hogwarts.
"Merlin, it's real!"
"The Gringotts messenger owl…"
From that moment on, the title "Lucky Alan" was no longer disputed.
It became a legend, retold and embellished in every corner of the castle.
Yet Alan knew he could not let himself be defined by this label of "luck." Luck was uncontrollable, fleeting, and ephemeral. What he sought was a reputation rooted in logic and intelligence, something absolutely controllable.
The opportunity appeared in the Gryffindor common room.
The fireplace roared, casting the room in a warm orange glow. Alan sat in an armchair, reading, when several older students approached. The boldest of them asked,
"Alan Scott, how did you do it? Teach us. Do you have some secret divination technique?"
The question immediately drew everyone's attention.
Alan closed his book and looked up.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he slowly took a clean sheet of parchment from his bag and laid it on the low table before him, retrieving a quill and a bottle of ink.
The gesture carried an air of ceremony, and the entire common room fell silent.
Everyone leaned in, stretching their necks, eager to see what he would reveal.
"First, I must clarify—this has nothing to do with luck."
Alan's voice was soft, yet clear enough for everyone to hear. His expression was serious, his eyes focused, like a professor about to give a lecture at a Muggle university.
With the tip of his quill, he drew smooth, flowing curves on the parchment.
"This is entirely based on macroeconomic data and industry correlation analysis, yielding a high-probability inference."
He pointed to one gently rising curve.
"Look here—this is the growth curve of the Dragon Blood industry over the past five years. It has clearly entered a plateau phase. What does that mean? It means the market is approaching saturation, and new demand growth has nearly stopped."
The young witches and wizards exchanged confused glances, their faces full of bewilderment. "Plateau phase"? "Market saturation"? These terms were even harder for them to grasp than complex spells.
Alan paid no attention to their reactions and continued, using his quill to point at another simple chart he had sketched out seemingly from thin air.
"And this," he said, "is based on an analysis of annual reports from several major suppliers, published in the business section of The Daily Prophet. I examined their financial statements and discovered a highly unreasonable gap between raw material costs and product profit margins."
He paused, scanning the puzzled faces around him.
"In simple terms, the cost of acquiring raw materials is rising, but the selling price of the final products hasn't increased accordingly. This indicates that somewhere upstream in the supply chain, in places we can't see, there is a significant 'bubble.'"
"Bubble?" Ron Weasley couldn't help muttering quietly. "Like a soap bubble?"
"When an industry's growth stagnates while structural risks exist internally," Alan emphasized, each word striking their minds, "even the tiniest negative piece of news can trigger a chain reaction, causing the entire system to collapse. I simply placed a small bet at the most likely point of collapse."
He put away his quill, leaning back in his chair, and concluded,
"In the Muggle world, this is called short selling."
The Gryffindor common room fell silent.
Macroeconomics, industry correlation, financial statements, structural risk, venture capital…
This stream of unfamiliar terms felt like a relentless storm of spells, leaving every young witch and wizard dizzy. They looked at Alan, at his naturally calm expression, and then at the parchment covered in strange charts, their minds blank.
They didn't understand a single word.
Yet this did not prevent them from drawing one astonishing conclusion:
Alan Scott—he didn't rely on luck.
He relied on a kind of wisdom they couldn't even begin to comprehend, but which sounded immensely powerful.
His explanation didn't diminish his aura; it enhanced it. That image of a "logician" now gleamed with an almost unfathomable golden aura.
A genius's world—clearly, they could not hope to understand it.
This was the single thought that rose in everyone's mind.
Carrying this newly forged reputation, heavy with both wealth and wisdom, Alan reunited with his family at King's Cross Station and officially began his first Christmas holiday.
The train slowly pulled away, the whistle echoing through the station.
He looked out the window at the rapidly receding platform and saw Fred and George, along with Lee Jordan, waving vigorously, their faces radiant with smiles.
A barely perceptible curve appeared at the corner of Alan's mouth.
This term, indeed, had been exceptionally fruitful.