The news that Professor Flitwick wanted to see him for afternoon tea came as a bit of a curveball. While Albert was undeniably the star of the Charms classroom, his relationship with the diminutive professor had always been strictly academic—polite, efficient, and centered around the perfect swish-and-flick. Flitwick wasn't like Smith or Broad; he didn't usually go in for private mentoring sessions unless there was a specific prize to be won or a paper to be discussed.
It has to be the article, Albert thought as he navigated the moving staircases.
He had recently submitted a piece on the fluid dynamics of charm-casting to Magical Innovation, and the timeline fit. But more importantly, his mind was already pivoting toward utility. This was a golden opportunity. He had a task on his quest panel involving the Restricted Section of the library that was sitting at 90% completion. All he needed was a signed permission slip from a head of house or a senior professor.
The problem was the excuse. Librarians like Madam Pince didn't just accept "curiosity" as a reason to browse books that could potentially melt your face off. By the time he reached the eighth floor of the West Tower and stood before the dark oak door of Flitwick's office, he still hadn't settled on a lie that felt waterproof.
"Come in, come in! Don't just stand there catching a draft, Mr. Anderson!"
Albert stepped inside and was immediately struck by the unique ergonomics of the room. Everything was scaled for a wizard of Flitwick's stature, yet adjusted for tall visitors. There were sliding ladders that looked like they belonged in a clockwork factory, a heavily cushioned chair raised on a mahogany dais, and a series of stepping stools scattered like islands across the plush rug.
"Professor, you wanted to see me?" Albert asked, taking a seat in a chair that felt surprisingly comfortable despite its height.
"I did indeed! Wonderful news, Albert. Truly wonderful." Flitwick was beaming so widely his mustache was practically twitching. He slid a fresh, glossy copy of Magical Innovation across the desk. The page was already bookmarked. "Your paper was not only accepted; it was featured. A feat for any wizard, let alone a student of your age."
"Katrina mentioned it briefly this morning, but seeing it in print is... different," Albert said, leaning forward to look at his own name in the professional typeface.
"Oh, it's more than just a publication," Flitwick squeaked, handing over a thick envelope sealed with heavy purple wax. "The editor-in-chief was so impressed he didn't want to risk a direct owl to a student—thought it might look like a prank or a recruitment scam, I suppose. He sent it to me to vet first."
Albert broke the seal and scanned the parchment. The letter was dense with professional jargon, praising his "daring interpretation of wand-arc variables" while gently nitpicking a few of his secondary calculations. It was a classic "soft hook"—the kind of letter experts send to prodigies when they want to make sure the talent doesn't sign with a rival publication.
"The name at the bottom... it's not Elphias Doge, is it?" Albert asked, looking up. The name felt familiar from his deep dives into Dumbledore's social circle.
"Elphias isn't the editor, no," Flitwick explained, hopping slightly in his seat. "But he's the primary benefactor and the soul of the magazine. If he likes your work, you've essentially been given a golden key to the academic community. Whether you want to climb the ladder at the Ministry or become a Master of Charms, these connections are the bedrock of a career."
"I appreciate the guidance, Professor. Truly," Albert said. He meant it, even if his actual career goals involved more "surviving the upcoming war" and less "writing quarterly journals."
He took a breath. It was time to steer the ship. "Actually, Professor, being published has made me realize how much I don't know. I was in the library looking into some more... advanced theory. Profound spells, you could say."
Flitwick's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. "Profound? At your age, usually 'profound' means learning how to change a teacup into a tortoise without it retaining a shell. What are we talking about?"
"The Patronus Charm and the Fidelius Charm," Albert said clearly.
The silence that followed was heavy. Flitwick looked at Albert as if he were trying to see through his skull. "The Patronus? You've been reading up on Dark Creature defense? That is... ambitious. Have you tried it?"
"I've been practicing for about two weeks," Albert lied easily, though he had indeed been doing the mental exercises. "It's frustrating. I can get the silver vapor, but the books mention a 'corporeal' form. I don't quite grasp the physics of it. Does the magic change state? From light into matter?"
Flitwick sighed, a sound of both pride and paternal worry. "It's not physics, Albert. It's spirit. The Patronus is a manifestation of pure hope. It's a very difficult shield to maintain because it requires a specific type of 'happy memory'—one that isn't just a good day, but a memory that defines your soul. Most adult wizards can't produce a corporeal form. It's not about magical power; it's about the clarity of your heart."
He paused, his expression softening. "Don't be discouraged if you only see mist. You're young. You haven't had enough life yet to forge a Patronus that can stand on its own four legs. But the Fidelius... why on earth are you looking into that? That's not even a charm in the traditional sense. It's a soul-bond."
"I read that it hides secrets within a living soul," Albert said, leaning in. "But the text was vague. How does one hide a physical location—like a house—inside a person's spirit? It sounds like more of a curse than a charm."
Flitwick nodded solemnly. "In many ways, it is a burden. The Secret-Keeper becomes the sole anchor for that information in reality. If the secret is the location of a house, the house effectively ceases to exist for the rest of the world. You could be standing on the doorstep, and unless the Secret-Keeper has granted you the 'key' through their own will, you would see nothing but empty air. It is the ultimate form of protection, but it has a terrible flaw."
"The Keeper," Albert whispered.
"Exactly. The secret is only as safe as the person holding it. If they die, everyone they told becomes a Secret-Keeper in their own right, and the secret begins to bleed out, losing its potency. It's a spell of absolute trust. It's quite... lonely."
"Is that why Hogwarts isn't under it?" Albert asked. "Too many people? Too many secrets?"
"Precisely. You can't hide a mountain behind a molehill. To put Hogwarts under the Fidelius, you would need a Secret-Keeper of such immense spiritual fortitude that the school's history wouldn't crush them. And even then, the moment a student walked through the gates, they would become part of the secret. It would be unmanageable within a week."
Albert tapped his chin. "I was thinking of using a localized version. For my diary. I'd like to make sure my research stays private."
Flitwick blinked. He looked like he wanted to laugh but was too baffled to manage it. "You want to cast one of the most complex soul-binding rituals in the wizarding world... to protect a notebook?"
"It's a very important notebook, Professor."
"Albert, I admire your thoroughness, but that's like using a dragon to guard a sandwich. There are dozens of high-level privacy charms—the Colloportus variants, the Protean seals—that would serve you better without risking your soul's integrity."
Albert shrugged, not wanting to push the diary angle too hard. He had achieved his goal: he had shown Flitwick his interest in high-level theory. Now for the final pivot.
"Professor, there's something else bothering me about these old spells. If the Patronus and the Fidelius are as ancient as the records say, why are the incantations in Latin? Or English? If I go down to the hidden chambers and look at the foundation stones, everything is in Ancient Runes."
He looked Flitwick in the eye. "Does the language of the spell actually matter? Or is the incantation just a training wheel for the mind? Could I cast a Patronus by shouting 'Pineapple' if I had the right memory and intent?"
Flitwick's eyes twinkled. He loved this kind of theoretical debate. "That, Mr. Anderson, is the question that separates a wizard who follows recipes from a wizard who understands the kitchen. Language is a lens. It focuses the intent. Latin and Runes are simply different shapes of the same lens. The magic doesn't care about the word; it cares about the shape your mind takes when you say it."
"Then I need to see the original shapes," Albert said, finally playing his hand. "The Restricted Section has a copy of The Primal Voice. I think if I can understand the Runic roots of the Patronus, I might be able to find the clarity I'm missing for the corporeal form."
Flitwick looked at the boy—really looked at him. He saw the published author, the seeker of ancient truths, and the student who was already outgrowing the standard curriculum.
"You're going to go there anyway, aren't you?" Flitwick asked with a wry smile.