The holidays ended, and the train bound for Hogwarts thundered with a steady rhythm. Outside the window, the Scottish Highlands flashed by in retreat, tinged with the bleakness of late autumn.
Inside the carriage, Fred Weasley's face was scrunched up, his whole body slumped into the soft seat as he let out a long, despairing groan.
"I swear, Snape must be keeping a Norwegian Ridgeback in his office just to sniff out our homework. How else could he have noticed?"
"One dragon wouldn't be enough."
George, equally lifeless, rested his head against the icy windowpane, knocking his forehead against the glass in regret.
"Those eyes of his cut straight through parchment—they can see every lazy thought we ever had. If I'd known, I'd at least have changed the word order."
In their bid to save effort, they had turned in Potions homework that was identical word-for-word—down to punctuation marks and even the ink stains. Predictably, Professor Snape's sharp eyes had seen through their trick in less than three seconds. The punishment: double the essay length, due the very first day back.
Alan Scott listened to their complaints, the corners of his lips curling into a faint arc. He set down his book and pulled a thick, coverless notebook from his bulging satchel.
When he opened it, the pages revealed dense diagrams. The lines were precise, complex, and imbued with a sense of strict, unnatural order—completely unlike the magical charts usually seen at Hogwarts.
"Stop wailing over spilled cauldrons," he said quietly, but the words immediately caught the twins' full attention.
"Take a look at my new research. It might inject some fresh life into your failing prank enterprise."
Fred and George's heads leaned over like iron filings drawn to a magnet. They were always twelve parts curious about Alan's mysterious research, which seemed oddly detached from normal "magic."
"What's this? Another one of your Muggle… circuit diagrams?" Fred's eyes roamed over the intricate array, trying to pick out some familiar logic.
"No."
Alan tapped his finger lightly on a rune composed of concentric circles and radiating lines.
"This is Ancient Runes. An elective only offered starting in third year at Hogwarts."
He didn't hide his work, directly revealing his research direction.
"I'm trying to link a special category of 'intent runes' with modern spells, to create entirely new magical effects."
Seeing identical confusion on his friends' faces, Alan knew theory alone wouldn't suffice. He switched to plainer words.
"Think of it this way: modern spells are basically 'commands.'"
"You say Lumos, and the tip of your wand lights up. It's a one-to-one, actively triggered instruction. You give the command, it executes. Simple and direct."
Alan paused, letting them digest the idea, before dropping the real concept.
"Ancient runes, though, are more like rules. You don't need to issue orders all the time. You set the rules in advance, and they'll run automatically according to changes in the environment. For instance: I set the rule, 'If the surroundings grow dark, then activate light.' The rune itself will determine when 'darkness' happens, and when the condition is met, it outputs the result—light—by itself."
Theory alone was pale. To make his words tangible, Alan pulled a small object from his pocket.
It was a polished wooden token, inlaid at the center with a flowing silver ink rune—a new composite, formed by combining the basic runes of "protection" and "light."
He laid the token flat on the table.
Then, slowly, he spread his hand over it, completely blocking the light above.
Something remarkable happened.
No incantation. No wand.
The silver rune flared to life like an activated circuit, glowing with a soft, silvery-white brilliance like moonlight, illuminating the outline of Alan's hand.
When he lifted his hand, exposing the token once more to the carriage's light, the glow gently faded, extinguishing itself. No trace of magical flux lingered.
"Whoa!"
Fred, George, and Lee Jordan—all three voices burst out in unrestrained awe.
"I call it The Light of Vigilance," Alan explained.
"I can set the rules to be more complex—like adjusting brightness according to the level of malice nearby. Or simpler, like now, responding only to light levels. No need for wands or spells. It's a passive magical construct."
That word—that concept—that way of breaking down ancient, arcane magic into something "modern," "logical," and reconstructed—shattered the twins' ingrained understanding of magic.
In their minds, Alan had kicked open a door to a whole new world of mischief.
"I get it!"
Fred shot upright, his slump gone in an instant, eyes blazing with near-fanatical light.
"So we could make, say, a dungbomb that only detonates when a professor walks within ten feet!"
"Or an inkwell that automatically sticks its tongue out whenever Snape even thinks about finding fault!" George added, punching the air as if he could already see the birth of such groundbreaking inventions.
Watching his friends' creativity explode, applying his theories instantly to their strongest field, Alan finally let a genuine smile spread across his face.
The greatest value of knowledge was never in hoarding, but in inheritance and sharing.
He was glad that his new understanding of magic could serve as a spark—igniting the boundless prairie of imagination in his dearest friends.
When he returned from the Ravenclaw Tower to the common room, Alan passed straight through the noisy crowd and locked himself inside the small space enclosed by his bed curtains. The fire and laughter outside had nothing to do with him anymore.
His desk was no longer covered with thick tomes, but a chaotic laboratory: charred wood scraps, runestones dulled from drained energy, and dozens of shattered failures from collapsed magical circuits piled in the corner.
The air was heavy with a peculiar scent—a mix of scorched oak and the faint ozone tang left behind when magic dispersed.
Alan poured his full focus into the tiny carving knife held between his fingers. His breathing was faint, his gaze frozen in concentration, as though he weren't carving a simple piece of wood but crafting a miniature world about to be given life.
After tens of thousands of rehearsals and simulations inside his Mind Palace, he had finally cracked open a fissure in the wall between theory and reality.
The key was linkage.
How could an Ancient Rune—representing pure "intent"—be stably and efficiently connected with a modern spell, one already possessing fixed casting structures and magical models?
It was no different from writing a real-time compiler between two entirely different languages.
At last, after consuming the final batch of materials, he succeeded.
The carving knife traced its last stroke across the surface of the oak token: a guardian rune reduced to its simplest core, retaining only the function of "passive deflection," seamlessly embedded into the underlying magical structure of the Shield Charm.
He lifted the thumb-sized, smoothly polished oak token. Its carved lines were even, carrying a quiet rhythm of magic. On the back, a carefully calculated groove awaited its energy core.
Using tweezers, Alan picked up a pinch of faintly glowing green luminescent moss from a crystal vial and carefully packed it into the groove.
The moment moss touched rune, the wooden token gave a subtle tremor. A faint gleam flickered along the carved lines—so brief it was almost imperceptible—before vanishing completely.
It was done.
Alan held the tiny creation in his palm. A name rose naturally to his mind.
"Guardian 1.0."
This was his first true "passive-trigger magical application." A magical construct that required no spoken incantation, no concentrated effort—executing defensive instructions automatically under preset conditions.
The theory was validated, the prototype complete. The next step was critical: field testing.
A perfect "product" needed a perfect "user profile."
Faces of Hogwarts students flickered rapidly through Alan's Mind Palace. He didn't need a powerful wizard. He needed… a perfect victim. Someone frequently exposed to low-level, non-lethal malicious attacks, with virtually zero self-defense ability.
A name and a face emerged in clarity.
Colin Creevey.
That Gryffindor classmate, always clutching his Muggle camera, gazing at Harry Potter with near-reverent devotion. His timid nature and solitary habits made him an eternal magnet for trouble—one of Peeves the Poltergeist's favorite targets.
Alan found Colin at a corridor corner.
"Creevey."
Startled like a rabbit, Colin flinched, then relaxed a little upon recognizing Alan. A flustered, uncertain look crossed his face.
Without wasting words, Alan handed him the wooden token.
"What's this?"
Colin touched the delicate token with curiosity, surprised at its strange, soothing warmth.
"A lucky charm," Alan said calmly, his tone brooking no argument. "Keep it in your pocket. It may bring you some good fortune."
Colin's face filled with confusion. He couldn't understand why Gryffindor's legendary prodigy would come to him with such a gift. But he felt the sincerity behind it, and quickly nodded, carefully tucking the token into the inner pocket of his robes with gratitude.
The test came sooner than Alan expected.
Two days later.
Colin had just developed several of his favorite photos. Hugging his beloved camera, he happily hurried down the second-floor corridor to show Harry.
Suddenly, a sharp, mocking voice rang from the ceiling above, echoing harshly through the empty hallway.
"A little squirt with a silly box! Let Peeves give you a bath, eh? Hehehe!"
Peeves' translucent figure in his ridiculous suit appeared midair, holding an enormous water balloon with a wicked grin. He hurled it straight at Colin's head.
Colin screamed, instinctively squeezing his eyes shut, body frozen in fear—too late to dodge, bracing for the icy humiliation.
One second.
Two seconds.
The impact never came.
At the very instant the balloon should have struck, a sudden warmth surged from Colin's chest pocket.
The warmth flared—and a nearly invisible ripple, like heat-distorted air, flashed before him. A micro-transparent shield blinked into existence.
Thump!
A dull, unnatural sound echoed.
The water balloon smashed into the unseen barrier, halting half a meter from Colin. It burst silently, showering the floor and walls—but not a single drop touched him.
Peeves' cackle died in his throat.
Rubbing his eyes in disbelief, his beady gaze bulged wide—his prank had never failed before.
Colin too stood frozen.
He opened his eyes, looked down at his completely dry robes, then trembling, reached into his pocket. His fingers found the oak token, still faintly warm, like the steady beat of a calm heart.
The shield was weak—its output so carefully minimized by Alan that it could hardly withstand even the simplest Stunning Spell.
But its significance was immeasurable.
Alan's first "passive-trigger magical application" had just passed its trial by fire.
This tiny success was like a pebble tossed into a still lake. The ripples were small, reaching only as far as this corridor—but they heralded a tidal wave powerful enough to shake the foundations of the wizarding world.
At this moment, Alan laid the most solid and crucial cornerstone of his path toward magical programming.