That night, when Gryffindor lifted the House Cup, the ceiling of the Great Hall blazed with scarlet and gold banners that burned like fire.
But when Dumbledore personally announced the "Award for Academic Contribution" to Alan Scott, it was like pouring boiling oil onto the flames of Slytherin's fury.
Over the course of the year, they had fallen from the heights of pride to the depths of humiliation.
First came their defeat on the Quidditch pitch.
Then the loss of the House Cup.
And worst of all — the "Quill Catastrophe" that struck just before the final exams.
Every Slytherin student could still vividly recall the terror of being forced — against their will — to scrawl humiliating verses glorifying Gryffindor, their hands moving as if under the Imperius Curse, their minds screaming in helpless rage.
That memory — that powerlessness — had curdled into pure hatred.
Every failure, every disgrace, every ember of anger had now gathered around one name.
Alan Scott.
The first-year who had risen to fame in Hogwarts, so brilliant that even Dumbledore himself regarded him differently.
They didn't dare hex him in the corridors — not with Dumbledore's watchful authority, nor against Alan's unfathomable strength.
So, in the hushed shadows of the Slytherin common room, they conceived a plan — not crude, but cunning. A "respectable" revenge, as malicious as it was elegant.
They would strike where Alan was strongest — his intellect.
They would drag him down, not through violence, but through disgrace.
They would destroy him publicly — in the one arena he was untouchable: academia.
And their chance arrived — during the final examination in Ancient Runes.
The atmosphere of the exam was markedly different from others.
Because it included material from upper-year electives, Hogwarts had permitted all students interested in Ancient Runes to participate.
The vast examination hall was filled with students from every House and year, sitting shoulder to shoulder. The air smelled faintly of dry parchment and the soft rasp of quills scratching against paper.
Time flowed in silence.
And just as the final grains of sand were slipping through the exam's enchanted hourglass — a sudden motion shattered the stillness.
A Slytherin student rose to his feet. His posture was rigid, chin slightly raised, his expression exuding a calculated arrogance.
Marcus Flinch.
In the field of Ancient Runes, Flint was no amateur. His family's long-standing ties to the German wizarding community had given him access to knowledge beyond the scope of most Hogwarts textbooks. More importantly, he was one of Draco Malfoy's most devoted supporters.
The instant Flint stood, every Slytherin quill paused in unison.
Dozens of eyes — filled with quiet anticipation and malice — turned toward him.
Professor Babbling, the examiner, frowned deeply. Even behind her thick spectacles, the disapproval in her eyes was unmistakable.
But Flint didn't look at her.
His gaze, sharp as a poisoned arrow, cut across the rows of students and fixed unerringly on one figure at the front — Alan Scott.
"Professor, I have a question."
Flint's voice rang out loud and clear, every syllable measured and deliberate, carrying effortlessly to every corner of the hall.
"I recently had the great honor of reading Mr. Alan Scott's paper — the one published in The Daily Spell — a truly remarkable piece of work."
He drew out the word remarkable with deliberate emphasis, his tone dripping with false praise.
"However, I also noticed something rather… intriguing. The core theory in Mr. Scott's paper — on Spell Modularization — bears a striking resemblance to an academic hypothesis proposed thirty years ago by the renowned German rune scholar, Baron von Eckhart."
There it was.
Every Slytherin heart began pounding harder.
A thin, venomous smile curved Flint's lips. He no longer looked at Alan — instead, he turned to the room, projecting his words for all to hear.
"I'm simply curious," he said smoothly, relishing the silence that now filled the room. "I would like to ask Mr. Scott publicly…"
He paused — drawing out the moment, savoring the collective tension. Then, with deliberate slowness, he uttered the words that would pierce deepest.
"Is such a remarkable coincidence the result of two geniuses sharing the same thought across time… or…"
His tone lowered, dripping with insinuation.
"…is there something else behind it?"
This was no longer a question.
It was an accusation.
This was a blatant, public accusation of plagiarism—
launched in the middle of a Hogwarts final exam,
before the professors and the best students in the entire school!
Boom!
The examination hall instantly erupted.
Whispers flooded the air like a rising tide.
Countless gazes—
shocked, doubtful, curious, and gloating—
all converged upon the same target:
the first-year student who hadn't so much as turned his head.
Everyone wanted to see how he would respond.
Would he lash out in anger?
Defend himself nervously?
Or, faced with such "solid evidence,"
would his face pale as he struggled to find words?
But Alan's reaction… was beyond everyone's expectations.
He showed no anger, no anxiety, not even the slightest ripple of emotion.
It was as if those venomous words hadn't reached him at all.
He remained sitting straight-backed, utterly calm,
as though the uproar behind him belonged to another world entirely.
Finally, under the weight of every watching eye—he moved.
Quietly, he raised his hand with the calm precision of one performing a ritual.
"Professor."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a strange steadiness,
reaching every corner of the hall with perfect clarity.
He smiled lightly at Professor Babbling on the podium
and made a proposal that once again silenced the room.
"I completely agree with Flint.
Academic integrity must always be respected."
Gasps rippled through the hall.
He… agreed?
Flint's smirk widened with triumph,
while several Slytherins exchanged smug looks—
until Alan continued speaking.
"To ensure that no doubt remains," Alan said, his tone unhurried,
"I propose that we make a slight change to the final bonus question of this exam."
Before anyone could react,
he finally turned his gaze toward Flint—
for the first time since the accusation.
His eyes were calm, fathomless.
Yet beneath that calm lay something unmistakable—
a trace of pity, pure and unhidden,
from a height Flint could never reach.
"Let's change it to this: Flint and I shall both, right here and now,"
His eyes swept from Professor Babbling to every student in the hall,
and his words fell like measured blows of a spell.
"Translate together a passage—
one of your choosing, Professor—
from an unpublished ancient tablet
of hieroglyphic runes from Egypt's Fifth Dynasty."
Then he looked back at Flint,
a faint curve at his lips, his tone soaked in absolute confidence.
"What do you say?"
That suggestion landed like an invisible, resounding slap—
crashing squarely across Flint's face.
Alan didn't bother to refute the accusation,
nor did he waste a breath on self-defense.
Instead, he responded in the most direct,
devastatingly elegant,
and publicly humiliating way possible—
by throwing down the gauntlet for an academic duel.
And more than that—
he had handed Flint the choice of weapon himself.
The proud Slytherin froze in place,
his earlier smirk turned to stone.
He stood there, rigid and speechless,
trapped in a corner of his own making—
utterly humiliated.
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