The day after the twins were safely discharged from the hospital wing, a letter of invitation from the Headmaster's Office was personally delivered to Alan by Professor Minerva McGonagall.
Her expression was as strict as ever, yet those sharp eyes—normally brimming with authority—held a flicker of curiosity and scrutiny as they rested on him.
The invitation was written on smooth parchment, its elegant calligraphy marked unmistakably by Dumbledore's refined, free-flowing hand.
When Alan once again stepped into that circular office, he was instantly surrounded by a familiar harmony of magical sound.
Countless silver instruments hummed quietly along their orbits—some ticking rhythmically, others releasing faint clouds of rainbow-tinted vapor. Gears interlocked in intricate precision; crystal lenses turned slowly; and the sunlight spilling through the window refracted into countless dancing motes of light.
Fawkes, the phoenix perched upon his golden stand, opened his obsidian eyes. Seeing the visitor, he lifted his slender neck gracefully and let out a melodious cry—one that resonated not through the ears, but deep within the soul, carrying a soothing warmth like immersion in a bath of sunlight.
"Sit down, Alan."
Dumbledore's voice was calm and gentle as he gestured toward the high-backed chair across from his desk.
Behind his half-moon spectacles, those bright blue eyes were fixed intently upon Alan. That gaze pierced through appearances, reading into the layers beneath—holding admiration without disguise, curiosity in abundance, and something else Alan couldn't quite decipher: a meaning as deep and unfathomable as the sea.
The hum of the silver instruments seemed to fade into silence, leaving only the quiet between them.
"About Tom Riddle's diary," Dumbledore said suddenly, his words cutting straight to the point with surgical precision—no small talk, no detour.
"Your analysis was remarkable," he continued after a brief pause, as if choosing his words carefully. "Particularly your hypothesis regarding it being an artificially intelligent program. I daresay, your conclusions are far closer to the truth of that cursed object than any report submitted by the Aurors at the Ministry."
He leaned forward slightly, a gleam flashing behind his lenses.
"In recognition of your exceptional intellect and the courage you displayed in protecting your fellow students, I've decided to award you something… rather unique—"
"The Dumbledore Special Achievement Award."
Alan half-expected a gleaming trophy or a weighty gold medallion to appear.
But Dumbledore did not produce any such thing.
Instead, he rose slowly, his midnight-blue robes embroidered with stars gliding softly across the floor. Turning toward the towering bookshelf behind him—lined from floor to ceiling with ancient tomes—he let his fingers brush along the spines before stopping at a thin, unassuming volume.
He drew it out and handed it to Alan.
It was bound in deep-blue velvet, plain and understated.
On the cover, no ornate gold title was embossed—only fine threads of silver tracing patterns like the paths of stars across the night sky. Those lines intertwined and converged, forming the title:
"The Logical Paradoxes of Modern Spellcraft."
Alan's breath caught for a moment.
With both hands, he accepted the book solemnly. The velvet felt soft and warm to the touch, yet the book itself carried a weight—a gravitas—that only true knowledge could possess.
He opened the title page.
A faint fragrance of aged parchment and rich ink rose to meet him. On the page was Dumbledore's unmistakable, sweeping signature—graceful and alive.
Beneath it, a short inscription:
"To Alan Scott — for the young wizard who dares to measure the boundaries of magic with logic."
Each word seemed to glow with power, imprinting itself upon Alan's mind.
This was more than a book—it was recognition, inheritance, and expectation. A gift from the greatest wizard of the age, pointing toward the future.
The volume itself was long out of print, but the personal inscription alone made it priceless beyond any amount of Galleons.
"Thank you, Headmaster," Alan said, his tone carrying a reverence even he hadn't noticed before. He carefully closed the book, as though cradling a treasure beyond measure.
"But, my boy…"
Dumbledore's tone shifted suddenly, and the relaxed atmosphere in the room tightened once more. He sat back down, fingers interlaced upon the desk, his expression growing solemn.
"I imagine you must be wondering—how did Tom Riddle manage to program a fragment of his soul into something capable of independent thought and will?"
Alan's heart gave a sudden, violent thump.
He knew it now — the real conversation had finally begun.
Dumbledore spoke slowly, his voice calm yet carrying a weight that seemed to echo through time itself.
"This form of magic," he began, "originates from an ancient art long lost to the ages. It predates most of the Dark Arts we know today — and in many ways, it is even more… fundamental. It explored the connection between the abstract — concepts — and the living essence we call life… and how the two might be bound together in a deep, irreversible way."
His gaze grew distant, as though piercing through the very walls of his office to glimpse Hogwarts as it had stood a thousand years ago.
"And, as far as my research goes," Dumbledore continued quietly, "one of Hogwarts' founders once delved very deeply into this very field."
Inside Alan's mental palace, a long-sealed door burst open with a thunderous echo.
"Therefore," Dumbledore said, and in his eyes flashed that knowing glimmer only true sages wear when guiding their successors, "I have a theory. Somewhere within this castle — in some forgotten corner — there may exist a hidden library, a repository containing ancient and perilous knowledge of this sort."
"Unlike the Restricted Section, it would not have obvious walls or a visible guardian… Instead, it would be protected by something far more… intelligent."
Dumbledore's voice stopped there. He said no more.
But each word he had spoken was like a key — finely crafted, precise — sliding one by one into the locked doors of Alan's mind, turning all at once with a click of revelation.
"A secret library."
Knowledge of ancient Concept Magic.
Protected by wisdom itself.
— Boom.
Countless clues exploded into a chain reaction inside Alan's thoughts.
That book he'd been chasing all along — The Fortress of Thought, with its final page mysteriously torn away!
The diary whose "encrypted script" could only be written and read using pure logical intent!
Every hint Dumbledore had just given struck him like lightning, connecting all those isolated fragments that had been drifting in the dark — welding them into one dazzling truth.
And in that instant, Alan understood.
The so-called "Secret Library" was never a physical room at all.
The "wisdom" protecting it was not a spell, nor a lock.
It was a logical construct — a grand, conceptual puzzle made of thought itself.
A gate of pure intellect.
And the missing final page of The Fortress of Thought was likely the manual — the entry protocol for unlocking that gate.
That hidden library… was the ultimate answer behind every mystery he had been chasing.
Find it — and he might find the lost page of The Fortress of Thought.
Find it — and he might truly decode the inner workings of Tom Riddle's diary.
Find it — and perhaps, at last, discover the path toward the Primordial Formula, the very blueprint that governed the laws of existence itself.
In that moment, the goal of the Philosopher's Stone seemed small — almost trivial.
A new quest had taken form within Alan's heart — one far grander, far deeper, and infinitely more dangerous:
The pursuit of knowledge itself.
~~----------------------
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