Alan's plan of "silent communication" had entered its third day.
Afternoon sunlight streamed through the towering stained-glass windows of the Hogwarts library, fragmented into countless motes of color that drifted slowly in the hushed air.
Alan sat at his usual restoration desk in the corner, surrounded by tools and materials. His concentration was absolute, as though the outside world had faded into silence and monochrome.
He was repairing an ancient volume titled The Legal Evolution of Dragon Rearing. The cover had long since fallen away, the glue of the spine had dried and cracked, and the parchment pages within were so brittle that a single touch threatened to shatter them.
His fingers were steady as mechanical arms, as he used an ultra-fine pair of tweezers to lift a fragment of parchment smaller than a fingernail. In an instant, the Mind Palace completed a contour analysis of the torn edges and projected the fragment's exact original placement onto Alan's retina.
With a needle tip, he applied a specially prepared adhesive that carried a faint herbal scent along the fragment's edge. Then, with painstaking care, he pressed it seamlessly into the gap on the page.
The entire process contained not the slightest tremor.
It was a practice that bordered on meditation—an ultimate pursuit of order and wholeness.
He was not merely repairing books. He was demonstrating to some unseen presence an attitude: a pure, uncompromised respect for knowledge itself—untainted by any trace of utilitarian gain.
On the first day, he had restored Medieval Rituals of Magical Duels.
On the second, he rebound a rare goblin poetry collection with scraps of dragon hide.
And today, the third day, he completed The Legal Evolution of Dragon Rearing.
When he set the newly restored book quietly back in its original place on the shelf, the sunset's afterglow had already bathed the entire library in warm golden light.
Alan did not seek anything out.
He simply returned to his desk and began tidying his tools, his movements calm and unhurried.
It was then that the light around him warped.
The temperature in the room dropped by several degrees. The drifting dust motes in the air seemed to scatter, as though brushed aside by an invisible hand.
A thin, translucent figure slowly materialized before him, no more than three steps away—shifting from vague to solid with each passing heartbeat.
Agnes Scribner.
The once keeper of the Hogwarts Library.
Her ghostly form appeared denser than Alan had imagined. That severe, rigid expression was etched upon her face like an eternal brand. She said nothing. Her hollow, pupil-less eyes simply fixed upon him, quietly, unwavering.
That gaze held no trace of human emotion—yet carried a weight that seemed to pierce directly into the soul.
Alan did not speak. He only met her eyes with calm, steady composure.
Time stretched thin.
One second.
Ten seconds.
A full minute.
Finally—Madam Agnes's ghost slowly turned.
She inclined her head to Alan, the faintest of acknowledgments.
A simple, unmistakable gesture.
Follow.
Alan's heart gave a heavy thump against his ribs, but his breathing remained steady. He didn't move immediately—he simply waited.
The test was passed.
He followed the ghost of Madam Agnes, walking toward the deepest part of the library.
They passed through the regular reading areas, past the towering shelves that required ladders to reach the top.
At last, they stopped before the dreaded door chained with thick links—the entrance to the Restricted Section that all students feared.
Madam Agnes's ghost did not touch the chains. She merely extended her hand toward the door and made a slight motion.
The rune-engraved chains stirred like living serpents, loosening themselves silently and sliding to the floor. The heavy oak door groaned in protest, opening just wide enough to allow passage.
From within the gap, a rush of air escaped—cold, tinged with the scent of decaying parchment, dried potions, and dangerous magic.
Alan stepped through after her.
The bookshelves here were denser, more chaotic than those outside. The air was filled with a faint, nearly inaudible hum, a low vibration Alan recognized at once: the resonance of powerful Dark Magic, bound and sealed within pages.
Madam Agnes's ghost led him through the maze-like shelves.
At last, they arrived at what appeared to be an utterly ordinary stone wall, indistinguishable from its surroundings.
This was the deepest corner of the Restricted Section, a dead end where even light seemed heavy and sluggish.
The moment Alan stopped walking, his Mind Palace had already completed a scan of the wall.
A complex three-dimensional array, formed from countless energy nodes, unfolded in his mind.
[Magical Identification: Guardian Charm of Knowledge.]
[Effect: Any intruder who harbors impure intentions toward "knowledge" itself—be it exploitation, desecration, or possession—will have their mind exiled forever into the labyrinth of logic.]
Madam Agnes's ghost raised one translucent finger, first pointing to the wall, then back at Alan.
The meaning was clear.
Speak your purpose.
Alan steadied his breathing.
He knew that lies or disguises would be meaningless here—before this ancient charm that could trace the will to its very source, deception would only invite ruin.
He had to speak his truest, deepest intent.
He lifted his head, eyes calm, meeting the cold stone engraved with its countless runes.
His voice rang out in the silent depths of the Restricted Section—clear, steady, and unwavering:
"I seek knowledge, not for the sake of wielding power over others, nor for the vanity of ambition.
I seek knowledge so that, within the kingdom of my own mind, I may build a fortress—one strong enough to resist every form of ignorance, prejudice, and enslavement.
Everything I do is solely to protect the absolute independence of my own thought."
The moment his words fell, the runes on the stone wall—dormant for untold centuries—began to glow one by one with a soft radiance.
Light rippled across the wall like waves.
A deep rumble, like some ancient beast turning in its slumber, echoed from within.
The wall slid apart in silence.
Before Alan lay a small, long-hidden chamber, thick with dust.
A breath of even older, purer book-scent washed over him.
Inside, there were no shelves of grim tomes describing soul-splitting or soul-stealing spells.
Instead, there was only a single circular bookshelf.
Upon it rested fewer than twenty books.
Each bore the marks of ages long past. Some had covers of coarse dragonhide, others were bound in materials that shimmered with metallic luster, and still others were made of substances impossible to identify.
They were all unique, irreplaceable volumes.
Alan's gaze quickly swept over the titles embossed in faded scripts:
"The Logical Philosophy of Magic."
"The Metaphysics of Willpower."
"The Structural Collapse and Reconstruction of Ancient Magical Theory."
His pupils tightened.
These were not books on using magic.
They were books on understanding magic.
Treasures safeguarded and written by generations of librarians, distillations of thought on the very essence of magic.
At last, Alan's eyes locked upon one book in particular.
It rested in the very center of the shelf, quiet and commanding.
Its cover was fashioned from a deep, black leather that seemed to absorb all light.
Etched upon it, in silver runes, was a title that gleamed with an icy, deadly allure:
"The Fortress of Thought: The Logical Construction of Ancient Occlumency."
The instant Alan's fingertips touched its spine, a strange sensation spread into his skin.
It was not the cold of ancient artifacts, nor the texture of ordinary leather.
It was warm, vibrant, pulsing faintly with a life-like essence—like the slumbering heartbeat of some colossal beast, its warmth seeping into his flesh through the book's cover.