As a Muggle-born wizard sorted into Slytherin, Alan was an easy target for those who adhered to pure-blood supremacy. However, after a year of disciplined, solitary training, he wasn't afraid. He simply knew he needed to add more trump cards to his hand.
After much deliberation, Alan made a choice: he would move permanently into his cabin in the Forbidden Forest. This would drastically reduce the chances of daily friction with the pure-blood faction. Freed from the dormitory, he spent his days practicing spells and studying rune theory, while his evenings were dedicated to advanced runology with Professor Bones.
One afternoon, Alan was in his small room absorbed in "Aggregated Runology." The text detailed how to optimize sequences by adjusting the structural alignment of magic runes; he had even found a specific methodology for manipulating sound wave frequencies.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted his reading. He opened it to find Charles standing on the porch. Alan offered a small smile. "You're here. It seems your reason has finally triumphed over your impulse."
Charles stepped inside, looking around at the rugged, comfortable furnishings. "You actually live here now?"
"I do. Slytherin is a powder keg right now. The pure-bloods are forcing everyone to pick a side, and they definitely won't let me remain neutral. Instead of staying in the dungeons and giving them easy targets, I've decided to step away and build my strength," Alan explained.
Charles looked resentful. "I didn't expect those bastards would turn on their own housemates. What about Vivian? She must hate them as much as we do."
"She comes from a prominent family. Even as a half-blood, they won't touch her. Besides, Senior Vanessa will look after the girls," Alan said.
Charles nodded slowly. "That's something, at least. I've been thinking, Alan... and I realize I'm still too weak. There have been skirmishes between Gryffindor and Slytherin lately, and I'm useless in all of them. You're the most resourceful person I know. Tell me what to do."
Alan reached into his desk drawer and produced a piece of parchment. "I've already mapped out a schedule for you. Be warned: you're about to undergo a very specific kind of special training."
Charles took the paper, his brow furrowing as he scanned the lines. "Running? What kind of special training is this? Shouldn't we be practicing hexes?"
Alan patted Charles's somewhat thin shoulder. "Your physique is lacking, which slows your reactions. Strengthening your body activates the magic within you, making your spellwork more efficient. Consistent exercise also tempers your will, and a strong will directly increases the intensity of your magic. These are the principles I've refined over the last year."
Before Charles could protest, Alan continued, "You'll need to get up early every morning. I'll take you running to build your core fitness. After classes, you come here for magic endurance and casting precision. It won't be easy."
Charles set his jaw. "I'm not afraid of hard work. If it makes me stronger, I'll do it."
Alan saw the determination in his friend's eyes and nodded. He appreciated Charles's ambition, but everything depended on whether the boy had the grit to see it through.
"Good. We'll start with Spell Extension Training. This is a method I developed to sharpen magic control and perception," Alan said. He filled a large basin with water and levitated it so it hovered directly over Charles's head. "Now, cast a Levitation Spell on it."
Charles had never heard of such a thing, but he obeyed. Since he hadn't mastered wandless magic like Alan, he pulled out his wand and focused.
"Maintain the spell. Hold the output for as long as possible. Try to feel the flow of magic leaving your body and focus on conserving as much of it as you can," Alan instructed.
"And then?" Charles asked, staring nervously at the heavy basin. He had used far too much power at the start; he wasn't used to supporting such a heavy weight.
"And then we wait. I need to gauge your magic reserves. Don't let go; continuous casting is the only way to refine your control." Alan pulled over a chair, sat down comfortably, and went back to his book.
Charles managed to persist for five or six minutes before his muscles began to ache and his neck grew stiff. "Does this really work? I... I don't think I can hold it much longer!"
"It's only been a few minutes," Alan said casually, not looking up from his page. "I could hold a spell longer than that when I was eight. Don't complain. The longer you hold it, the better the result."
He knew that those without systematic training often struggled with the "sprinting" phase—much like a novice runner who exhausts themselves in the first mile. The wizarding world lacked a precedent for this kind of conditioning; power was often attributed to talent or bloodline. Alan found that notion ridiculous. He intended to prove that effort could elevate a wizard far beyond their "natural" station.
Watching Charles struggle, Alan decided to apply a bit of pressure. "Keep going. If you can't even handle this, how do you expect to avenge your family?"
Charles's eyes instantly reddened. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to stabilize the basin.
"You need to reach at least ten minutes," Alan reminded him.
"Fine!" Charles gasped.
The minutes ticked by. Charles passed the ten-minute mark, but Alan remained silent, wanting to see exactly where the boy's limit lay.
"Is it... time yet?" Charles asked, his voice strained. "I feel empty. My magic is gone."
"One more minute. Hold it." It had actually been twelve minutes, and Charles was currently tapping into the very bottom of his reserves. His head began to swim with exhaustion. "Alan... it's been a while, hasn't it?"