The transition from the drafty corridors of the castle to the hidden sanctuary of the Ravenclaw Chamber was seamless, largely because Albert's mind was still operating at a frequency higher than reality. The golden haze of the Felix Felicis hadn't faded; it was merely sharpening, turning every word out of his mouth into a perfectly placed chess piece.
They stepped through the threshold of the Room of Requirement, the secret door sealing shut behind them with a heavy, final click.
"We did it!" Albert exclaimed, his voice echoing with a youthful, exuberant pitch that he knew would disarm even the most suspicious mind. He turned to Professor Smith, his face glowing with a feigned, breathless excitement. "Professor, did you see that? The sequence actually held! We've actually opened it."
"Yes, Albert. You did it," Smith said. His voice was lower than usual, thick with a relief that sounded almost visceral. He reached out and squeezed Albert's shoulder—a gesture that was meant to be paternal but felt more like a predator marking its territory. "Let's see what the Lady of the House left for us, shall we?"
Smith didn't wait. He strode into the center of the chamber, his eyes darting around the space with a hungry, restless energy. Albert watched him carefully. The professor didn't look like a man discovering a lost treasure; he looked like a man checking a map he'd already memorized. When his gaze fell upon the empty pedestal where the legendary Book of Bronze should have been, there was no shock. No outrage. Just a grim, knowing nod.
"Professor? It's empty," Albert said, moving to the center and doing his best impression of a disappointed treasure hunter. "The book... someone's already been here. All that work, and some greedy thief beat us to it."
He looked at the walls, tracing the faint, glowing inscriptions. In reality, Albert knew exactly where that book was—tucked away in his own mental vault—but here, in the dim light of the chamber, he had to play the part of the frustrated genius.
"Not just any thief, Albert," Smith murmured. He was leaning over a section of the wall where a familiar, elegant script had been etched into the stone. "Dumbledore. He's been here. He's traced these lines just as I am doing now." His voice dropped to a bitter whisper. "He knew. He knew all along, and he didn't say a word."
"What was that, Professor?" Albert asked softly, stepping closer.
"Nothing," Smith snapped, straightening his back and forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just reflecting on the nature of secrets. Even Headmasters can't resist a good mystery, it seems."
"Well, if the Headmaster can leave his mark, surely I can too?" Albert asked, adopting a tone of cautious curiosity. "It feels wrong to leave without a trace. 'Albert Anderson was here'—it's a bit cliché, but history deserves to know we made it."
"It is your right, Albert. You opened the door," Smith said, though his mind clearly wasn't on the graffiti.
Albert moved to an empty patch of stone and began to meticulously carve his name. As he worked, he let his gaze wander toward a specific corner of the wall where an ancient name stood out: Wildsmith.
"Professor," Albert said, pausing his work and pointing to the name. "I've seen this name before in some old texts. Is it an ancestor of yours? The Smith family tree must be quite extensive."
Smith's eyes shifted toward the name, and for a split second, the mask slipped. "I don't recall a direct lineage," he said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial hum. "But I know the weight of the name. Wildsmith isn't just a family, Albert. It's a legacy."
"A legacy?" Albert asked, feigning confusion. "Like... a famous potioneer?"
"You haven't heard of it?" Smith stepped closer, and Albert felt that familiar, invasive pressure at the edges of his mind. Legilimency. But the Felix Felicis was a perfect shield. Albert's thoughts were a chaotic swirl of Quidditch scores, Transfiguration theories, and the taste of the chocolate he'd eaten earlier. Smith found nothing but the surface-level curiosity of a gifted student.
"No," Albert shook his head, looking genuinely puzzled. "Should I have?"
"Most Wizarding families have skeletons in their closets, but the Smiths... we have entire libraries," Smith explained, his tone becoming strangely instructional. "Some families choose to fade into the background, hoarding their strength and their secrets while the rest of the world plays at politics. The Wildsmiths were the masters of that game."
"The Wildsmith Family?" Albert asked. "But if they're so secret, why are you telling me? I'm just a Muggle-born kid who happens to be good with a wand."
Smith took a long breath, staring at the name on the wall. "Because, Albert... you aren't just a student. You are a candidate."
Albert let his eyes widen, his jaw dropping in a display of pure, unadulterated shock. "A what? A candidate for what? Professor, if this is some kind of recruitment for a secret club, I should tell you my schedule is already pretty full with the Wizard Card tournament."
"An heir candidate, Albert," Smith corrected, his voice dead serious.
"Me? An heir to a family I've never heard of?" Albert pointed to himself, laughing nervously. "Are you sure you haven't got the wrong guy? My parents are about as Muggle as they come. My dad thinks 'magic' is just a fancy word for a card trick. Are you telling me this ancient family picks their heirs based on talent rather than blood?"
Smith looked Albert up and down, a flicker of something like jealousy crossing his face. "In the case of the Wildsmiths? Yes. Talent is the primary currency. But there is always a blood connection, however diluted it may be. A dormant spark that suddenly flares up in a 'Muggle-born' genius."
"But Isabelle is a genius too!" Albert reminded him, shifting the focus. "And she's a Pure-blood. Wouldn't she be the obvious choice? I thought the Wizarding elite hated people like me. Why would they want a 'Muggle' inheriting their fortune?"
"Bloodlines are complicated, and the Wildsmiths are pragmatists," Smith whispered. "They want the best. And Mr. Bard... Professor Broad... he wouldn't be giving you so much of his time if he didn't see the mark of the candidate on you."
Albert felt a jolt of realization. So that was why Broad was so protective. He was trying to shield Albert from the vultures like Smith who wanted to pick apart the legacy.
"Actually, Professor," Albert said, clearing his throat and trying to sound as un-greedy as possible. "I don't really want to know about fortunes or heirlooms. My grandmother always said the more you know, the more people expect of you. And I already have enough expectations on my shoulders."
"But you already know the core of it, don't you?" Smith smiled, a thin, sharp expression. "The Book of Bronze? It was taken by a Wildsmith. And the secret behind the most used substance in our world? That belongs to them too."
"You mean... Floo Powder?" Albert asked, his brain connecting the dots.
"Ignatia Wildsmith," Smith confirmed. "The woman who invented the powder and built a monopoly that has lasted centuries. The price hasn't changed in a hundred years. Two sickles a scoop. No one can replicate it. No one can steal the recipe. It is a river of gold that never runs dry."
"So you're saying I'm a candidate to inherit a Floo Powder fortune?" Albert blinked. To anyone else, this would be a dream. To Albert, it sounded like a giant target painted on his back. "That sounds like a lot of paperwork and a lot of people wanting to kill me for the recipe."
"Precisely," Smith said. "Which is why the family hides. But Isabelle is also a candidate. It's a competition, Albert. A trial of merit."
"Isabelle is my rival for a powder fortune?" Albert asked, his eyes wide. "Wait... if we're both candidates, does that mean she's my cousin? Because that would make the library study sessions very awkward."
Smith sighed, looking tired. "I thought you'd be more concerned about the Galleons, Albert. Most wizards would give their right hand for a fraction of that wealth."
"I like Galleons as much as the next guy, Professor," Albert said, tapping his temple. "But I prefer the ones I earn myself. Taking things that don't belong to me usually comes with strings attached. And I hate strings. Why hasn't anyone just deciphered the recipe in all these years? Surely some potion master has figured it out?"
"Many have tried," Smith said darkly. "And many have ended up in St. Mungo's—or the morgue. 'Pseudo-Floo' is a death sentence. The Wildsmiths don't just protect their recipe with magic; they protect it with misinformation. The recipes that circulate in the underworld are designed to blow the user to bits."
"That's... remarkably efficient," Albert noted. "And terrifying."
"I know all this because I was a candidate once too," Smith admitted, his voice tinged with a bitterness that he couldn't hide. "But I didn't meet the requirements. I was 'given up on,' as they say. Only the heir gets the full truth. The rest of us are just left with the crumbs of the mystery."
Albert looked at the man in front of him. Smith wasn't just a teacher; he was a failure looking for a second chance. He was jealous of a twelve-year-old boy who had been handed an opportunity he'd been denied.
"Professor, if it's such a burden, can't I just... resign?" Albert asked firmly. "I don't want the path arranged for me. I'm doing fine on my own. Tell Isabelle she can have it. Tell her I'll even buy her a scoop of powder to celebrate."
Smith was speechless. He stared at Albert as if the boy had just grown a second head. "You... you're turning down the Wildsmith fortune? Hundreds of years of accumulated wealth and power? Are you insane?"
"I'm not insane, I'm just busy," Albert said, his voice ringing with the pride of a true genius. "I have my own magic. I have my own plans. Why should I be a caretaker for a dead woman's legacy when I can build my own? If you know Isabelle's family, tell them I'm out. I'll trade my 'candidate' status for access to their library, though. Books are much more useful than gold."
Smith let out a long, ragged sigh. "You should have been in Ravenclaw, Albert. Your thirst for knowledge is the only thing bigger than your ego."
"Gryffindor suits me just fine," Albert replied with a wink. "We have better parties."
As they left the chamber, Albert felt the Felix Felicis finally beginning to taper off. He had done it. He had opened the door, satisfied Smith's curiosity, and positioned himself as a disinterested party in the Wildsmith drama.
But as he looked at Smith's retreating back, he knew the truth. Smith wasn't going to let it go. The professor didn't want Albert to inherit the fortune; he wanted to find a way to take it for himself. And now that Albert had claimed he didn't want it, Smith likely saw him not as a rival, but as an obstacle to be cleared.
Albert popped one last chocolate into his mouth. The plot thickens, he thought. And here I was thinking second year was going to be boring. 🏰🦁🍬