Professor Smith hadn't just come to the Great Hall to admire the budding entrepreneurship of the Wizard Card Club. It was clear from the way he lingered that he had an agenda, one that required a more private setting than a table full of rowdy Gryffindors and piles of copper coins.
As they left the warmth and noise of the Great Hall behind, the transition into the cool, stone-walled corridors felt like a shift in reality. They walked in a silence that wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but it was heavy—the kind of silence that precedes a revelation. Albert trailed slightly behind Smith, his mind already racing through possibilities.
When they reached the Defense Against the Dark Arts office on the second floor, Smith didn't waste time with pleasantries. The door clicked shut, sealing out the rest of Hogwarts.
"Mr. Serra Harishes reached out," Smith said, turning to face Albert. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a scroll of high-quality parchment, bound tightly with a rich purple silk ribbon. "He asked me to get this to you personally. It's an invitation, should your Christmas holidays allow for a bit of travel."
Albert took the scroll, feeling the weight of the parchment. He recognized the wax seal immediately—the crest of the Harishes family, known for their deep roots in Alchemical theory. He frowned, his thumb tracing the edge of the seal. "That's strange. Mr. Harishes and I exchange letters quite often. Why use you as a courier instead of sending it via owl?"
Smith gave a small, cryptic smile. "I suspect he wanted to ensure it reached you without any... interference. Or perhaps, as older men often do, he simply wanted to catch you off guard with a bit of mystery."
In truth, Smith was just as curious as Albert. He had his own history with Harishes—his own understanding of Alchemy had been shaped by the man's teachings. For Harishes to treat a second-year student with this level of formal gravity was unprecedented.
"He thinks very highly of you, Albert. Higher than you perhaps realize," Smith added, leaning against his desk. "If I were you, I'd accept whatever is written in there without hesitation."
Albert broke the seal and unfurled the parchment. The handwriting was elegant but hurried:
Dear Albert,
I imagine this delivery method has piqued your curiosity. I won't keep you in suspense for long. January 13th is a date of significant alignment—a rare window that doesn't open often in our field. I am hosting a small, private gathering and I would be honored to have you participate.
I'll be waiting for your owl.
Your faithful,Serra Harishes
"January 13th?" Albert muttered, looking up at the Professor. "He calls it a special day. Is it an anniversary of some discovery? Or perhaps... a ritual window?"
Smith poured himself a glass of water, his eyes reflecting the candlelight. "It's a gathering of minds, Albert. I've had the privilege of attending a few times in my younger years. It's not just a dinner party; it's an exchange of ideas that can change the trajectory of a career. As for the 'special' nature of that specific date, you'll understand the significance the moment you step through the door."
"It's not just a birthday celebration then?" Albert asked, testing the waters.
Smith chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "A birthday? No. Serra is far too focused on the eternal to worry about the annual marking of his own birth. This is about Alchemy, lad. Pure and simple."
"Are you going?" Albert asked.
The Professor's smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of distant nostalgia. "No. It's been years since an invitation found its way to my desk. My focus has... shifted. By the laws of tradition, someone your age shouldn't even be aware these meetings exist, let alone be invited. You are the exception to a very old rule."
"I see," Albert said, tucking the scroll into his pocket. "I'll write to him tonight. I'll need to figure out the logistics."
"If you're going home for Christmas, you'll need to coordinate with him on a Portkey or perhaps the Knight Bus," Smith suggested. "But before you go back to your cards and your Galleons, I have something else to discuss. Something a bit more... local."
He gestured toward a chair. "Sit. Would you like some tea? Milk tea, perhaps?"
"Milk tea would be fine, thank you," Albert replied, sitting down. He knew the 'invitation' was just the preamble. Now, they were getting to the real reason Smith had pulled him aside.
With a flick of his wand, two steaming cups appeared. The aroma of black tea and sweetened milk filled the room. Smith took a slow sip before speaking.
"Have you ever looked into the legend of Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets?" Smith asked, his voice dropping an octave.
Albert felt a jolt of recognition, but he kept his expression neutral. He knew the story inside out—the entrance in the girls' bathroom, the Basilisk, the tragic death of Myrtle Warren fifty years ago. But he needed to know what Smith knew.
"The Chamber? Every first-year hears the rumors," Albert said, playing the part of the skeptical student. "But isn't it just a ghost story? Surely the staff would have found a hidden room in the castle by now."
Smith shook his head slowly. "The Founders were the greatest architects of their age. If they didn't want a room to be found, it stayed hidden. But the legend isn't entirely fiction. Fifty years ago, the Chamber was opened. A student died. The beast within was meant to 'purge' the school of those Slytherin deemed unworthy. It's a dark, violent legacy."
"Why tell me this?" Albert asked. "I'm a Gryffindor. If there's a monster under the school, shouldn't you be talking to Professor Dumbledore?"
"Because," Smith continued, ignoring the question, "there is another version of the legend. One that doesn't involve monsters or blood purity. Some believe Slytherin didn't just leave a beast; he left his life's work. A library of Dark Arts, experimental charms, and ancient rituals that have been lost to the world for a millennium."
Albert leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "You think there's a treasure trove of forbidden knowledge down there? And you want it?"
"I want the truth of it," Smith corrected. "But I'm not looking for Slytherin's damp basement. You see, Albert, if Slytherin built a secret sanctum, do you really think the other three Founders were just sitting on their hands?"
Albert's heart skipped a beat. This was new information—or at least, a new angle. "You think Ravenclaw left a chamber too?"
Smith grinned, and for a moment, he looked genuinely excited. "I don't just think it. I know it. Do you remember the Ancient Runes I asked you to translate last month? The ones about the 'Breath of Wisdom' and the 'Hidden Eye'?"
"I remember," Albert said.
"Those weren't from an old book," Smith whispered. "They were etched into a stone seal I found in a forgotten corridor on the fifth floor. It's the entrance to Ravenclaw's Vault. I came back to Hogwarts to teach, yes, but primarily I came back because this is the only place I can finish my research."
Albert watched him closely. Smith was a good actor, but there was a flicker of desperation in his eyes that didn't quite match his calm demeanor. He was lying about his motivations—or at least, omitting the most dangerous parts.
"If you've found the entrance, why tell me?" Albert asked. "Why not just open it yourself?"
Smith sighed, looking genuinely frustrated. "Because the Founders were clever. Their protections aren't just physical; they are intellectual. The seal to Ravenclaw's chamber is a linguistic puzzle—a sequence of shifting Ancient Runes that respond to the intent of the reader. I can read the runes, Albert, but I can't solve them. Not yet."
"And you think a second-year student can?" Albert asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"I think you can," Smith retorted. "You have a natural intuition for the old tongue that I haven't seen in decades. Even Isabelle—who is brilliant, don't get me wrong—admitted that your grasp of the nuances is superior to hers."
"Isabelle knows about this?" Albert asked, his interest fully piqued.
"Her father and I were close," Smith said, a shadow crossing his face. "She's been helping me where she can, but she was the one who suggested I approach you. She said that while she follows the rules of the language, you seem to understand the soul of it."
Smith leaned in, his voice urgent. "Knowledge doesn't belong to one House, Albert. Ravenclaw's vault isn't about Dark Arts or monsters; it's about the pure, unfiltered wisdom of one of the greatest witches to ever live. Think of what we could learn. Think of what you could learn."