The first Gryffindor Common Room "Night Talk" of the new school year was in full swing, and the fire roared heartily in the grate.
The warm crimson glow flickered across eager young faces, bathing the stone walls in light and laughter. The air was thick with the comforting scent of parchment and butterbeer, and beneath it lingered that unmistakable mix of sweat and exhilaration that always accompanied Quidditch season.
At the center of it all stood Oliver Wood, the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, balanced atop a sturdy oak table to command the room's attention. The firelight outlined his tall, driven figure, making him look almost like a warrior-priest before his faithful.
He had just finished reading the names of the official players for the new year, each announcement punctuated by cheers and bursts of applause that shook the common room rafters. Now, he paused.
The noise subsided. Dozens of faces turned toward him, expectant.
Wood cleared his throat, his voice deep and steady as he raised it above the crackle of the flames. His eyes searched the crowd, until they found Alan Scott, seated quietly in the far corner.
When he spoke again, his tone carried a rare solemnity.
"And," Wood declared, every word firm and deliberate, "by special permission of Headmaster Dumbledore, our second-year student, Mr. Alan Scott, shall continue to hold the title of Honorary Tactical Advisor to the Gryffindor Quidditch Team!"
For a brief heartbeat, the room was silent, then erupted in thunderous cheers.
It wasn't mockery. It was respect.
It was the team's way of saying that though Alan no longer took the field, he still belonged to them.
Alan smiled faintly, nodding toward Wood. He understood the gesture completely.
"Don't worry," he said as he rose, his calm voice carrying easily across the room. "Though I won't be playing, all my tactical models will remain freely available to the Gryffindor team, for life."
That simple promise drew another round of applause. Wood grinned broadly, pumping his fist in relief and gratitude.
Across the room, Fred and George Weasley, joined by Lee Jordan, were watching him with wide grins and exaggerated winks.
Alan caught their eyes and mouthed a single sentence:
"The letter arrived."
The twins exchanged knowing looks, and Lee Jordan let out an overdone sigh of relief, patting his chest theatrically.
The letter, of course, was from Helmut Volk, confirmation that their so-called "technical transaction" had finally concluded.
That heavy burden, that international scandal, had at last been lifted.
The past was now cleanly erased.
Alan felt lighter than he had in months, as though the air itself had lost its weight. Now, at last, he could focus on what truly mattered.
His eyes wandered across the jubilant crowd until they caught the flicker of motion near the fireplace.
There, surrounded by several girls, were Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell. They were laughing over a curious little device, a palm-sized frame flickering with thousands of tiny points of light.
Within the luminous grid, a pixelated Professor Snape stood rigidly, stirring a cauldron with his usual scowl, rendered so perfectly by the shifting lights that it was both eerie and hilarious.
Alan approached, hands in his pockets.
"Angelina, Katie," he greeted lightly.
The girls looked up, smiling brightly.
"Alan! Look at this, this is brilliant!"
He watched the animated Snape for a moment, then spoke quietly, his tone thoughtful yet firm.
"It's entertaining, yes," he said, "but I think we can do more than make amusing toys."
The energy around him shifted. His words carried a calm authority that drew attention without effort.
He addressed not just the two girls, but the small circle of curious classmates who had gathered nearby.
"I'm planning," he said clearly, "to establish something new within Gryffindor House, a Hogwarts Makers' Workshop."
"Makers' Workshop?" Angelina repeated, intrigued by the unfamiliar term.
"Yes," Alan nodded. "Its purpose will be to promote what I call magical programming, a fusion of enchantment and logic. A place where any creative student can design and build unique magical artifacts of their own."
He swept his gaze across the room, dozens of faces reflecting curiosity, puzzlement, fascination.
"And you," he added, looking at Angelina and Katie, "will be our first clients, and collaborators."
Before they could ask questions, Alan turned to Katie, his tone suddenly animated, his mind already sketching possibilities.
"Katie, imagine this: a set of enchanted models designed to simulate Quidditch tactics."
Her eyes brightened.
"We can create a module to represent the Bludgers, red spheres of light that can move in high-speed linear motion once activated."
He traced a sharp, straight line in the air with his wand.
"And a module for the Golden Snitch, a gold speck of light whose movement is entirely unpredictable, governed by chaotic magical motion rather than preset patterns."
He drew a series of wild, swirling lines in the air, as golden sparks flared briefly at his fingertips.
"Every role on the field, Chasers, Beaters, Seekers, can have its own module, each obeying specific behavioral logic. You tell me the tactical goals," he said, "and I'll code the command runes that make those light-points move exactly as you want."
The room had gone utterly silent.
Everyone understood.
The whimsical "animated Snape portrait" had just become something else entirely, a gateway to a new way of thinking about magic.
In that moment, Alan had done something remarkable: he had seamlessly fused his advanced theoretical magic with the most beloved of Hogwarts traditions, Quidditch.
And just like that, the Hogwarts Makers' Workshop was born, winning its first members straight from the heart of Gryffindor's social core.
Angelina and Katie exchanged awed looks. Excitement sparkled in their eyes, the unmistakable light of inspiration.
Once the celebration faded and the common room settled, Alan slipped away quietly.
He had another engagement that evening, the first extracurricular academic session of the new term.
It was led by none other than Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and the world's foremost expert in Transfiguration.
The classroom was small, high-ceilinged, and lined with shelves of aged tomes. The moment Alan opened the door, he was met by the familiar scent of parchment, dust, and faintly humming magical residue.
The room was silent but alive, the soft scratching of quills on parchment, the subtle shimmer of transfiguration energy in the air.
Several older students were already there, absorbed in their research projects.
Alan's eyes swept the room, and then paused.
Among this year's newcomers were two faces he knew well.
The first was a fellow Ravenclaw of his year,
Penelope Clearwater.
She sat upright, her quill flying across her notes as she studied The Ultimate Theory of Transfiguration, a book thick enough to serve as a paving stone. The silver eagle of Ravenclaw gleamed faintly on her robes. She hadn't noticed him enter.
But the other student made Alan stop in his tracks.
A tall, composed young man, sitting with quiet dignity.
He wore immaculate Hogwarts robes, the Hufflepuff Prefect's badge gleaming proudly on his chest. His face was handsome and well-defined, and his steady presence seemed to radiate integrity and quiet authority.
Cedric Diggory, Prefect of Hufflepuff House.
And in that silent, scholarly room, as the quills whispered across parchment, Alan realized,
that the world of Hogwarts was growing larger,
and the age of creation was just beginning.
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