The question of whether or not to write to Professor Broad haunted Albert like a persistent Lumos charm that wouldn't extinguish.
Ever since he had walked Professor Smith into the heart of Ravenclaw's most guarded secret, the gears in Albert's head had been grinding. He wasn't a fool; he knew that Smith's obsession with that cold, stone chamber wasn't about Rowena's lost jewelry or some dusty diadem. She was hunting for a specific scent—the scent of a name.
Wildsmith.
By the time they had left the Room of Requirement, Albert was reasonably certain that Smith had seen exactly what she needed to see. The inscription on the wall wasn't just ancient graffiti; it was the final piece of a puzzle she'd been assembling for years. Did he regret showing her? No. In the high-stakes game of magical shadow-boxing, sometimes you have to show a little bit of the truth to hide the much larger lie.
But Professor Broad... he was the wild card. Albert's intuition—honed by a year of navigating the subtle politics of Hogwarts—told him that Broad wasn't just a retired professor with a fondness for gifted students. He was likely a gatekeeper for the very family Smith was trying to infiltrate.
"If the game is rigged, it's time to tilt the board," Albert whispered to himself, a small, predatory smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from his desk and dipped his quill into the inkwell. He began to write, his hand moving with a fluid, practiced grace. He didn't mention Smith. Instead, he told Broad that he had finally cracked the code to the Ravenclaw Chamber. He mentioned the empty pedestal and the missing Book of Bronze, subtly fishing for a reaction. If Broad held the book, Albert wanted him to know the secret was "safe" with him.
Once the letter was sealed and ready for the owlery, Albert leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting toward the translucent blue screen of his character panel.
The "PY Transaction" task with Professor Smith was marked as complete. The reward was promising: the Undetectable Extension Charm. It was a high-level spell, the kind used to make trunks larger on the inside or to hide entire tents in a pocket. It was a utilitarian masterpiece, but it came with a shadow. To learn it, he'd have to spend more one-on-one time with Smith.
And Smith was a Legilimens. A good one.
Albert stared at his Occlumency stat. Level 3. In the wizarding world, Level 3 was a fortress for most, but against a master who was actively digging? It felt like a picket fence. He looked at his remaining skill points. He had been hoarding them like a Niffler, planning to dump them all into his Wizard Bloodline to hit Level 5.
The allure of Level 5 was massive. It was the threshold of Wandless Magic—the kind of raw, instinctive power that made Tom Riddle and Albus Dumbledore legends before they were men. Most wizards peaked at graduation, their magical "muscles" setting into a fixed shape. Upgrading the bloodline was like expanding the fuel tank of a jet engine.
But a bigger engine doesn't matter if someone else is at the controls, Albert thought grimly.
He made his decision. With a mental tap, he spent the points.
[Occlumency upgraded to Level 4.]
The sensation was immediate and profound. It wasn't like a wall rising; it was like his mind suddenly grew a thousand layers of silk. He could feel his memories shifting, organizing themselves into "vaults." At Level 4, he didn't just block prying eyes; he could now project false memories. If Smith went digging, she wouldn't find his secrets—she'd find a perfectly constructed, boring afternoon spent studying Herbology.
"Try your luck now, Professor," he murmured, closing his eyes to practice the mental "shuffling" required to hide the Wildsmith reveal deep in his subconscious.
As he was about to close the panel, his eyes snagged on a notification he'd missed in the chaos of the afternoon.
[New Task: The Name of Wildsmith] The Wildsmith Family is the ghost of the Wizarding World. They are everywhere—in every fireplace, every journey—yet they are nowhere. You have been identified as a potential successor to this invisible empire. Discover the truth or forge your own path. [Reward: Unknown]
Albert sighed, rubbing his temples. "Another 'Unknown' reward. Why can't I just get a quest for extra Galleons and a clean pair of socks?"
He dismissed the screen and checked his watch. Dinner.
The Great Hall was loud, the usual evening roar of hundreds of students amplified by the gossip mill. As Albert sat down at the Gryffindor table, Fred, George, and Lee Jordan practically pounced on him.
"So," Fred began, leaning in so close his nose nearly touched Albert's ear. "Hagrid was out in the woods all morning. Dumbledore goes for a stroll. Then, suddenly, 'The Monster' is driven back into the shadows."
"The school announcement said it was a rogue creature from the depths of the forest," George added, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "But you were with Hagrid this morning, weren't you, Albert?"
"Dumbledore warned everyone to stay away for their own safety," Lee chimed in. "Which usually means Albert was right in the middle of it."
Albert didn't miss a beat. He skewered a piece of black pudding and took a calm, deliberate bite. "Do you three honestly think the Headmaster would invite a second-year student to a monster-hunting expedition? I was helping Hagrid look for a lost kneazle. It was very boring, and I got mud in my boots."
"Liar," Fred whispered, though he was grinning.
"Absolute tosser," George agreed. "You're hiding something. We can see it in your eyes."
"That's just the reflection of the candlelight," Albert replied smoothly.
Their interrogation was interrupted by the flapping of wings. A large, slightly bedraggled owl spiraled down, narrowly missing a bowl of mashed potatoes before dropping a heavy, lumpy package directly into Albert's lap.
"From Hagrid?" Fred asked, reading the messy scrawl on the brown paper as he helped Albert tear it open.
Inside was a small, unassuming drawstring pouch. It was made of a strange, pebbled leather that seemed to shift slightly in color when the light hit it—moving from a deep, swampy green to a midnight black.
"What is it? A coin purse?" Lee asked, unimpressed.
Albert reached inside and found a small scrap of parchment.
Albert, Thanks for yer help with Fluffy. Dumbledore's got 'im settled now, and he won't be botherin' nobody. This pouch is Moke skin. Good for keepin' things hidey. Only the owner can get 'em out. Don't go tellin' the whole school, eh? —Hagrid
Albert's eyebrows shot up. A Moke-skin pouch. In the wizarding world, these were legendary. Mokes were lizards that could shrink at will, and their skin retained that property. A Moke-skin pouch would shrink if anyone but the owner tried to open it, making it the perfect portable vault for things that shouldn't be found.
"It's just a lucky charm," Albert said, stuffing the pouch into his pocket before Fred could get a better look. "Hagrid's way of saying thanks for helping with the 'kneazle'."
"A lucky charm that gets delivered by a special owl?" George asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Eat your dinner, George," Albert said, his tone final. "We can talk about 'kneazles' in the dormitory."
As he went back to his meal, Albert felt the weight of the pouch in his pocket. It was a tangible reward, a physical piece of security in a world that was becoming increasingly complicated. Between the Wildsmith legacy, Smith's prying eyes, and Broad's hidden agenda, he was going to need a place to hide more than just a few Galleons.
He looked up at the High Table. Dumbledore was calmly eating a slice of lemon tart, looking for all the world like a man without a care. But Albert knew better. The game was in full swing, and for the first time, Albert felt like he finally had the mental defenses to play his hand.
Level 4 Occlumency, a Moke-skin pouch, and a letter on its way to a potential mastermind, Albert thought. Not a bad haul for a Tuesday. 🏰🦁🦎