On the Easter morning, sunlight streamed through the stained glass of the Gryffindor Tower, casting dappled shadows across the room. A slightly scruffy school owl tapped impatiently at the windowpane with its claws, breaking Alan's morning meditation.
It carried a package from home, wrapped in brown paper, marked with the familiar, delicate handwriting of his mother, Carla.
Alan untied the string, and a rich, warm scent of butter and spices instantly filled the small corner of the room. It was a batch of cross-shaped buns, baked by his mother herself, each still warm from the oven, soft and perfect.
The aroma stirred the deepest, softest memories in Alan's heart.
Beneath the food, there was a giant Easter egg, carefully wrapped in bright blue and silver-striped paper, with a touch of his father Robert's unique, slightly clumsy "straightforward dad" style in the wrapping.
Alan tapped the shell gently with his knuckles.
The anticipated rich chocolate scent never came. Beneath the broken shell lay a sleek black device, its glossy screen catching the light.
The latest handheld gaming console from the Muggle world.
On its cold, smooth surface was a small note, written in his father's flowing, commanding handwriting:
"Alan, work hard and play wisely. Love, Dad."
There were no extra sentimental words, yet Alan's lips curved into an uncontrollable smile. He could imagine his father writing the note with a mock-serious face while instructing his mother not to let him get too obsessed with games instead of studying.
Alan carefully stored the console in the bedside cabinet without opening it. This gift from another world felt more like a coordinate, an anchor—a reminder that no matter how far he traveled in the magical world, that warm home would always be a harbor he could return to.
The afternoon passed quietly in Professor Flitwick's office.
The small Charms professor, usually cheerful, now wore a serious expression. The fire in his office fireplace was not a warm orange-red, but an eerily vivid green, burning silently and steadily.
The Floo Network, the communication hub connecting the entire European magical community.
"Sit, Alan."
Flitwick motioned to a high-backed armchair far too large for his tiny frame, then handed Alan a small pinch of silver-green, sand-like powder.
Floo powder. Cold to the touch, with a strange metallic, burnt smell.
"Ready?" Flitwick's voice was low, solemn, like a commander addressing troops before battle.
"Stick your head into the flames and clearly, loudly speak the meeting address: 'Brussels Magical Theory Society'. Remember, once connected, listen more than you speak. Every person there could, with a single word you say, influence your life forever."
Alan pinched the powder tightly between his fingers. He nodded, his heartbeat steady yet strong.
He stepped toward the fireplace. The green flames licked the edge of his robe but caused no heat—only a peculiar sensation, as if passing through a thin membrane of warm water.
He sprinkled the Floo powder into the fire.
"Brussels Magical Theory Society!"
The moment the words left his lips, the green flames surged upward, forming a spinning vortex. A powerful, irresistible suction radiated from its center.
Alan's vision was completely consumed.
The next moment, the world around him flipped and twisted.
He didn't feel his body move, yet his perspective had already shifted into a space impossible to describe in words: a vast, circular conference hall formed entirely from countless green-flamed fireplaces. Each fireplace resembled an independent picture frame, embedded in black marble walls that stretched beyond sight.
Within each frame floated the image of a wizard.
Their forms were vivid, almost lifelike. An elderly man with a waist-length white beard, eyes closed as if napping, yet radiating the spiritual force of a dormant volcano. A strikingly beautiful witch, a thin fire snake coiling around her finger, cast a scrutinizing gaze at Alan. A middle-aged man with a monocle, expression stern, surrounded by meticulously stacked books.
Diverse in form and race, yet all radiated the same aura of profound knowledge and immense magical power, as if fused with the very essence of magic itself.
This was the pinnacle of wisdom in the European magical world.
Flitwick's voice, transmitted via the Floo Network, became slightly distorted. He spoke anonymously as he began sharing:
"…A young wizard, when faced with an unexpectedly powerful Legilimency attack, did not use the traditional passive mental defenses. Instead, he constructed a Concept Firewall, successfully countering the intrusion…"
The report was concise and precise.
Instantly, dozens of gazes in the circular conference hall pierced the spatial barrier, focusing on Flitwick's fireplace. The dozing elder opened his eyes, the beautiful witch ceased playing with her fire snake, and the stern middle-aged man pushed up his glasses.
Their interest had been piqued.
"…His core concept is 'Spell Modularization' and 'Mental Defense Programming'."
Encouraged by Flitwick's gaze, Alan summoned all his courage and began to explain the core of his theory in the most precise language. He compared the casting of magic to the execution of code, and the construction of mental defenses to building programs.
His voice was not loud, yet it resonated clearly in the ears of every master present.
The conference room fell into a deathly silence for several long seconds.
Then, a storm erupted.
"Absurd! Comparing the sacred art of magic to those cold, mechanical Muggle contraptions? This is blasphemy!" roared an irritable Italian wizard.
"No, I think this idea is quite intriguing," countered a gentle-voiced French witch. "We have long sought the universal principles of spells. Modularization may be a completely new direction."
"Programmed defense? Sounds like a variant of the Golem Guards from Alchemy, but applied at the mental level… this little guy Alan, is quite extraordinary."
Appraisal, doubt, curiosity, skepticism… countless emotions and opinions surged toward Alan like tangible waves. Every detail debated, every question posed, struck precisely at the most fragile, most advanced parts of his theory.
Alan felt his cerebral cortex heating slightly; his mental palace was operating at unprecedented speed, frantically absorbing, recording, and analyzing the sparks of brilliance emitted by these top-tier masters.
This was no longer a simple presentation.
It was a top-tier academic feast, dissecting his theory under a microscope.
No matter the outcome, the name Alan Scott and his astonishing "Magical Programming" theory, on this day, had been thrust, in the most direct and shocking way, into the core circle of European magical theoretical research.
When the conference ended, Alan withdrew his head from the fireplace. His face was pale, but his eyes shone brilliantly. The debates, the questioning—they had opened countless new doors for him.
The next day brought a visitor of a very different kind.
A snowy owl, exuding an air of regal arrogance, with pure white feathers not a single speck out of place, perched upon a leg ring engraved with the German magical emblem: a double-headed eagle.
It carried a letter written on thick, high-quality parchment.
The letter was composed in English, using an extremely precise and sharp Gothic script. At the bottom, a powerful signature: Baron von Eckhart, German Ministry of Magic, Department of Applied Magical Theory Research.
The wording was direct and pragmatic, characteristically German. Baron von Eckhart lavished praise on Alan's theory, calling it "the most revolutionary individual defense thought in the past fifty years."
He then officially invited Mr. Alan Scott, on behalf of the German Ministry of Magic, to Berlin this summer for a one-week academic exchange. All expenses would be covered by the Ministry.
The weight of this letter was far beyond a mere "acknowledgment."
It was an official endorsement of a first-year student's academic standing from the magical department of a European power.
Alan held the extraordinary parchment between his fingers, even feeling the residual magical energy left by the baron's signature. His future seemed like a grand blueprint, unfolding before him at unimaginable speed.
But just as he was immersed in this immense joy and vision, a loud crash yanked him back to reality.
The doors to the common room were violently thrown open.
It was Lee Jordan.
He looked as if he had just been pulled from water—hair plastered to his forehead, chest heaving violently, face drained of all color, leaving only panic and fear.
"Alan! It's bad!"
His voice was hoarse, trembling with tears. Every word was punctuated by raw urgency.
"Fred and George… something's happened to them!"
Lee Jordan nearly fell over rushing to Alan.
"I haven't seen them in the dorms for two whole days! I thought… I thought they were just up to some new prank, experimenting with something new…"
His lips quivered, unable to continue.
"But just now… I… I found this under their pillow!"
Lee Jordan suddenly opened his hand wide.
In his palm lay a crumpled, sweat-soaked piece of paper.
Alan reached out and took the thin sheet.
The familiar scent of the twins lingered on it, yet now carried a chilling coldness. A profoundly ominous, abyssal sense of foreboding instantly gripped his heart, freezing his very blood in his veins.
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