Hertok Dagworth didn't hand over the vial immediately. He held it for a moment, his eyes searching Albert's face for any sign of hesitation. When he finally let go, Albert took the glass, wiped the rim with a clean cloth, and took a measured, disciplined sip of the diluted emerald liquid.
The effect was instantaneous. It wasn't like the jolting rush of a caffeine overdose; it was more like someone had reached into his brain and smoothed out all the wrinkles. The background noise of his own wandering thoughts—the constant, buzzing mental to-do list—fell silent. In its place was a crystalline clarity.
"How's the view from up there?" Dagworth asked, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he watched Albert's pupils dilate slightly.
"It's... relaxed," Albert whispered, leaning back. "Everything feels more accessible. It's like my brain has been upgraded with a better file-indexing system. It reminds me of a nootropic, but far more invasive."
"A nootropic?" Dagworth scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Muggle chemicals can sharpen the edges, perhaps. They might keep you awake or stop your hands from shaking. But they don't breathe life into your spirit. A nootropic doesn't give you the ability to recall the exact shade of blue on a bird you saw three years ago. You'll find that for the next half-hour, your mind isn't just flexible—it's limitless."
Dagworth was right. Albert could feel the connections forming. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a notebook, and began writing. His quill moved with a fluid, terrifying speed, recording every nuance of the brewing process they had just completed. He wasn't just remembering the steps; he was understanding the rhythm of the potion, the way the frog brain tissue interacted with the oil-immersed toadstool on a molecular level.
However, a frown marred his smooth forehead. He checked his internal panel.
[Task: Broaden Brain - Progress: 85%]
The quest remained unfulfilled. It seemed the system was a harsh critic; the "safe," diluted version of the potion wasn't enough to trigger the breakthrough. It wanted the raw, volatile power of the original brew.
Albert looked at the secondary silver cauldron where the undiluted sludge sat, dark and menacing. "Can I try that one?" he asked, pointing a steady finger.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Dagworth's smirk vanished, replaced by a flash of genuine anger. "You're playing with fire, Anderson. And not the controlled kind. This is the kind of fire that burns the house down and leaves nothing but ash."
"I'm not being reckless," Albert said, his voice calm and eerily level. "I have complete confidence in your brewing. If anyone in this century has made a 'perfect' batch, it's you. I trust the potion because I trust the Master."
Dagworth fell into a heavy silence. Flattery usually bounced off him like a blunt hex, but there was a sincerity in Albert's gaze that was hard to ignore. He took a deep, jagged breath and rubbed his face with his hands.
"Just this once," Dagworth growled, his voice low and dangerous. "If I see you reaching for this kind of shortcut again, I'm done. I won't be the man who helped turn the brightest mind of a generation into a drooling ward-patient at St. Mungo's. Am I clear?"
"Completely," Albert said, offering a small, grateful wink. "I promise, there won't be a next time."
Whether that was a lie or merely an optimistic hope, even Albert wasn't sure.
"Wait until the diluted dose wears off," Dagworth commanded, crossing his arms. "In the meantime, we'll go over the theory again. If your brain is going to be running at full capacity, I might as well give it something worth processing."
For the next twenty minutes, Dagworth entered 'Lecture Mode.' He was a terrible teacher by any traditional standard—his explanations were dense, cluttered with obscure Latin terminology and advanced alchemical theory that would have left even a NEWT-level student weeping in frustration. But for Albert, currently under the influence of the cognitive stimulant, it was like listening to a song he already knew the words to. He didn't just hear the words; he saw the logic behind them.
He even began to suggest minor adjustments—ways to stabilize the Toadstool extract using a cold-press method rather than heat. Dagworth's eyes widened with every suggestion, a mixture of pride and mounting anxiety. He was watching a genius accelerate in real-time, and it terrified him.
"How is it?" Dagworth asked nervously as Albert finally picked up the vial of undiluted liquid.
Albert didn't hesitate. He took a single, precise sip—roughly one-third of the tube, exactly as Dagworth had dictated.
The world didn't just become clear; it became vivid.
The sound of the fire in the grate became a complex symphony of snapping wood and rushing air. The smell of the lab became a library of individual chemical signatures. But most importantly, the internal walls of his mind simply vanished.
"Great," Albert exhaled. The word felt too small for the sensation.
"Any pain? Dizziness? Pressure behind the eyes?" Dagworth was hovering now, his hand near his own wand, ready to cast a neutralizing charm at the first sign of a seizure.
"No. Just... silence," Albert said. He sat back in the armchair, intertwining his fingers. "I need to think. Don't disturb me."
While Dagworth watched in a stunned daze, Albert's mind began to sprint. He revisited his recent conversations with Flitwick. He realized now that he had been asking the wrong questions. He had been obsessing over the form of spells, when Flitwick had been trying to guide him toward the intent.
Most modern wizardry relied on Latin. But why? Latin was a dead language, a fossil of a fallen empire. If magic was universal, why were they tethered to the linguistic leftovers of ancient Rome? He thought of the Norse Runes, the guttural clicks of the Goblin tongue, and the ancient Egyptian heiroglyphs.
He realized that language wasn't the source of magic; it was the lens. Latin was a polished, reliable lens, but it was just one way of focusing the light. The 'essence' Flitwick spoke of was the mobilization of power through a conceptual framework. To cast a spell in English, or French, or a language that didn't exist yet, one simply needed to build a new lens that was just as focused as the Latin one.
Ancient Runes weren't just letters; they were blueprints for reality. Mastering them wouldn't just give him new spells; it would give him the ability to rewrite the ones he already knew.
Albert's eyes snapped open. He didn't say a word to Dagworth. He grabbed his pen and began to write, filling page after page with complex linguistic diagrams and runic chains that looked like nothing Dagworth had ever seen.
"Is it over?" Dagworth asked eventually, noticing the frantic scratching of the pen had slowed.
Albert looked up, his eyes slightly glazed but glowing with a profound satisfaction. He picked up his teacup, taking a sip of the now-cold milk tea. "The effect is... potent. But you're right, Hertok. Relying on this is a trap. It makes the answers too easy. If the brain doesn't have to work for the truth, it loses the muscle memory of discovery. It's better for the mind to move under its own power."
Dagworth let out a long, audible sigh of relief. He nodded, looking genuinely content for the first time that afternoon. "I'm glad you realized that on your own. There's hope for you yet."
He stood up and began clearing the table. "One more thing: the crash is coming. The undiluted version is a massive loan against your future energy. Once the effects wear off completely, you're going to feel like you've been trampled by a herd of hippogriffs. You can rest here, or I can have Gerald fetch a carriage to take you back to the castle. I suggest you pick a bed."
Albert felt the first tug of exhaustion at the corners of his vision. The vibrant colors of the room were beginning to fade back into their normal, dull hues.