"So, the disc measures total blood volume while the dropper isolates a specific magical signature. Once connected, the arithmetic program I've enchanted calculates the final value," Alan explained to the group.
"What exactly does '168 Ke' mean, then?" William asked, leaning in with genuine interest.
"A 'Ke' is the standardized unit I've assigned to magic. One Ke is the precise amount of energy required to cast a basic Lumos once. That means, Vivian, your current reserves are only enough to cast a Wand-Lighting Charm 168 times consecutively."
"Well, that sounds fairly impressive, doesn't it?" Vivian said, a touch of self-satisfaction coloring her voice.
"You are a fourth-year student," Alan said, his face hardening. "That capacity is barely at the level of a third-year. There is absolutely nothing to be proud of."
Vivian pouted instantly. "What am I supposed to do? I can't exactly make it grow on command."
"Which is why you need to intensify your training," Alan replied, ignoring her protests before turning to the others. "That goes for all of you."
He proceeded to test the rest of the group, and the digitized results brought a cold clarity to their progress.
William came in at 382 Ke, the highest in the group; he was on track to break the 400 Ke threshold before his seventh year. Charles sat at 257 Ke, a significant jump from Alan's rough estimates the previous year, proving that wizards hit a natural growth spurt after their third year. Bill followed at 143 Ke, a strong showing for his age that suggested he might eventually surpass Vivian. Evan trailed at 118 Ke, his naturally frail constitution still acting as a bottleneck.
Alan then cross-referenced these against his own measured value: 418 Ke.
*It seems a diet rich in magical creature meat is paying dividends,* he thought.
He looked at his friends not just as companions, but as a perfect set of test subjects. William was nearing adulthood, so basic conditioning would be less effective; he needed to focus on advanced combat tactics. For the others, Alan began drafting a rotation of experimental variables.
Evan would undergo independent physical conditioning, Bill would specialize in magical sensitivity drills, and Charles would practice standing meditation to temper his willpower. As for Vivian, since she loathed physical hardship, she would be assigned to the nutritional study. She would have to eat her way through his stores of magical meat to see exactly how much energy intake influenced magic amplification.
He planned to rotate these projects monthly, searching for the most efficient cross-training patterns. As the realization of the upcoming "curriculum" set in, Alan let out a low, cold laugh that sent a collective shiver down his friends' spines.
Hogwarts welcomed the new school year with an atmosphere unlike any Alan had experienced. Usually the "Slytherin Ghost" who moved through the halls unnoticed, he was now a celebrated Combat Hero. Every student, from the wide-eyed first-years to the wary seventh-years, watched him. The Slytherin pure-bloods, who had once tried to extort or intimidate him, now looked at him with a mixture of awe and suppressed dread.
Alan ignored it all. He retreated to his dormitory or the laboratory whenever possible, indifferent to the social capital his new title provided.
Two months into the term, during a quiet weekend, Alan stood at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Fully armed and alert, he prepared to venture deeper than ever before. Usually, he stayed on the periphery to help Hagrid, but a recent string of incidents had demanded his attention.
Hagrid had reported finding several magical creatures cruelly slaughtered—not by predators, but by something that left precise, brutal wounds. A Tebo warthog and a Re'em had been dismembered, and a Hippogriff had been left clinging to life.
For Alan, this was personal. Those Tebos and Re'ems were his primary research materials and food sources. He had helped Professor Kettleburn raise them for two years, waiting for them to reach maturity. Now, someone was snatching the meat from his mouth. Beyond that, he was uneasy about Hagrid facing an unknown threat alone.
"This is the spot," Alan muttered, squatting near a patch of disturbed earth. "The Hippogriff was ambushed here. There's still blood in the soil."
He checked a sample of the dark red mud, then reached up to adjust the silver-rimmed monocle over his right eye. His vision shifted; faint red luminescence pulsed from the ground wherever blood had been spilled.
Alan drew Dark Depiction and began chanting. As the tracking spell took hold, the mottled spots of light expanded into a trail, and a thin, colored mist rose into the air, marking the path the attacker had taken through the dense undergrowth.