After glimpsing even a corner of the vast cosmic sea of "All Laws Return to One," Alan's mental world erupted in an unprecedented storm. He immediately sealed himself off, pouring all his computational power and focus into a project that could only be called monumental.
He was going to construct his "Fortress of Thought."
An absolutely solid, perfectly rational mental core. This would be the sole foundation for his future exploration of the essence of magic and even touching the very root of the world.
The Easter holiday arrived as expected.
The bustle of Hogwarts gradually faded with the students returning home. Corridors echoed only with the sound of the wind, and the ancient stone walls seemed to drift into deep slumber within the silence.
Alan had volunteered to stay behind.
This unprecedented calm was the sacred space he had longed for.
On his desk lay three entirely different knowledge systems, spread open and illuminating one another. Nicolas Flamel's alchemy notes, written in elegant, flowing script, radiated classical and profound wisdom; the "All Laws Return to One" theory decoded from the chaotic diary, raw and wild, pointed directly at the core; and The Fortress of Thought provided rigorous, reliable methods for construction.
The three acted like three perfect gears, beginning to mesh and turn within Alan's mental palace.
He was long past the point of being satisfied with simply erecting a passive defensive barrier in his mind.
That passive, reactive approach was inefficient and foolish.
He wanted to armor the palace of his mind — built from Absolute Rationality — with a real, active, offensive, and indestructible mental armor.
Alan named it the "Conceptual Firewall."
Its defensive logic overturned all known mental defense techniques. It was savage, complex, and even exuded pure malice.
Any external spiritual force attempting to infiltrate his mind using Legilimency would not be blocked.
The firewall would allow them entry.
This, in itself, was the first trap.
Once the intruder's mental tendrils crossed the boundary, they would be instantaneously dragged into an infinitely extending "conceptual labyrinth."
This labyrinth was personally woven by Alan.
Countless unresolved mathematical conjectures formed its brick walls; endless logical paradoxes branched its corridors; irrefutable philosophical loops became traps; and bizarre, fractal geometric patterns served as the self-replicating, infinitely expanding blueprint.
Intruders would experience a form of mental torment unlike anything before.
Any attempt to interpret one layer of Alan's thought would immediately be locked by an even deeper, more obscure problem.
They would witness the infinite sequence of the Goldbach Conjecture racing past, every number interrogating the limits of their logic. They would be torn between observation and non-observation in Schrödinger's cat superposition. They would be whipped by the philosophical paradox of Theseus' Ship, questioning every fundamental definition of their own existence.
Eventually, the intruder's spiritual energy would be completely exhausted within this endless logical maze.
Even more terrifying, the sheer magnitude and abstraction of the information flood would rebound, striking the intruder themselves. Their mental core could crash or even collapse under the pressure.
This was no longer defense.
It was a dimensionality-reducing strike, a uniquely Alan-designed, most vicious intellectual trap.
When the initial construction of the Conceptual Firewall was completed, Alan's fingertips trembled slightly.
He needed a real-world test — a tester with sufficiently strong mental power.
Looking across Hogwarts, there was no more suitable candidate than the Dark Arts Defense professor, who always wore a turban wrapped around the back of his head.
Professor Quirrell—or rather, the fragment of soul attached to the back of his head.
During a Defense Against the Dark Arts class, the air was thick with the smell of incense and some kind of herbs.
Alan raised his hand.
He deliberately put on an expression of puzzlement, and in front of the entire class, he posed a question he had carefully designed over several nights, full of logical traps.
"Professor,"
His voice was clear and resonant, carrying the youthful thirst for knowledge.
"I have a question about why werewolves cannot be cured. Suppose a wizard, before being bitten by a werewolf, first takes a potion to transform themselves into a vampire. Then, when the full moon arrives, would they trigger the werewolf curse, or would their undead vampire nature render them immune?"
He paused, letting the question hang in the air.
"And if they were immune, would that mean that the essence of the werewolf curse is not what we have understood as 'irreversible'?"
The classroom fell completely silent.
This question bypassed Quirrell's stammering facade and pierced directly into the proud and fragmented soul behind it.
Voldemort felt provoked by this logical-level challenge.
A cold, powerful, dense spiritual force instantly locked onto Alan. It moved silently, like a stealthy venomous snake, slithering into his mind.
Legilimency!
A cruel, self-satisfied smirk curved Quirrell's lips.
However, the moment his spiritual power touched the surface of Alan's mind, the smile on his face froze abruptly.
No memories.
No images.
What he saw was an abyss made of countless mathematical formulas and logical symbols, glittering with icy cold light. A slowly rotating vortex that devoured all light and thought, bottomless and infinite.
His spiritual power hadn't even had a chance to react before an irresistible gravitational pull dragged him in.
Quirrell's body on the podium shuddered violently.
The color drained from his face at a visible speed, turning deathly pale in an instant.
"…!"
A muffled groan of pain escaped his throat. He clutched the back of his head as if a red-hot steel spike had been driven into it. The immense backlash of the information flow tore through his brain with excruciating pain.
Terrified, he desperately severed the mental link.
Those formerly murky eyes were now wide with shock and disbelief. He stared unblinkingly at Alan, who still stood in place, wearing an expression of innocence mixed with curiosity—a look that seemed utterly alien to Quirrell.
All of this was observed in its entirety by Professor Flitwick, sitting in the back row, his small figure absorbing every detail.
After class, Alan was summoned to Flitwick's office.
After repeatedly confirming that Alan had constructed a mental defense system so complete that even Quirrell (Voldemort) could not breach it—and would suffer backlash if he tried—this European-renowned dueling master, nearly trembling with excitement, spoke with a tone that felt like witnessing history.
He gave Alan a completely new title:
"The Youngest Master of Mental Defense in Hogwarts History."
Then he looked at Alan carefully.
"I will anonymously submit your case to an online academic seminar during the Easter break. Every participant there is one of the top spellmasters in all of Europe."
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