"I wondered if you'd stay," Smith said, appearing in the doorway. She looked less like a teacher now and more like a weary traveler. "My lecture didn't scare you off?"
"It takes more than a few scary stories to ruin my appetite, Professor," Albert replied with a light shrug.
Smith let out a short, dry laugh. "Fair enough. Walk with me. My office is more comfortable for what we're about to do."
As they moved through the quiet corridors, the click of their shoes against the stone was the only sound. Albert noticed the way Smith kept her hand near her wand holster—a habit of someone who had spent too much time in places where 'vigilance' wasn't just a classroom slogan.
"You think I went too far today, don't you?" Smith asked suddenly, not looking at him. "The werewolves. The Acromantulas. Most of your classmates looked like they were ready to vomit."
"For twelve-year-olds? It was a bit of a shock to the system," Albert admitted. "But you weren't teaching them how to pass an exam. You were teaching them how to survive. Most people don't realize the difference until it's too late."
"True. But I suppose it doesn't matter much in the long run. I'll likely be following Professor Broad's example soon." Smith paused at her office door, the brass handle gleaming in the torchlight. "I'm planning to resign by May."
"May?" Albert raised an eyebrow. "Cutting it a bit close to the end of the year, aren't you?"
"The curse on this position isn't a myth, Albert. It's a mathematical certainty," she said, twisting the knob. "Better to leave on my own feet than be carried out on a stretcher. But before I go, I intend to make sure you at least have the tools to handle what's coming. Come in."
The office was filled with the scent of old parchment and expensive tea. Albert took his usual spot on the velvet sofa, watching as Smith waved her wand. A silver tea set drifted over, pouring two cups of steaming milk tea with practiced precision.
"Most wizards are pathetic when it comes to actual defense," Smith said, settling into her armchair and taking a sip. "Even the Aurors at the Ministry... you wouldn't believe how many of them struggle to maintain a basic Shield Charm under pressure. In a real fight, they're about as useful as a chocolate cauldron."
"Peace breeds complacency," Albert noted, accepting his cup. "The Ministry doesn't want a population of combat-ready wizards. It's easier to govern people who can't defend themselves."
"You have a very cynical view of the world for someone so young," Smith remarked, her eyes twinkling with a dark sort of amusement.
"I call it 'observational realism'."
"Well, observed or not, the world is getting louder. There are whispers, Albert. Dark ones. They say You-Know-Who isn't as dead as the history books claim."
"I've heard the same at alchemy conferences," Albert said, keeping his voice steady. He wasn't about to tell her he'd already had a run-in with the man's ghost in the basement. "But I doubt you're teaching me the Extension Charm just so I can hide from a Dark Lord."
"No. I'm teaching it to you because you asked, and because it is perhaps the most regulated, abused, and misunderstood piece of magic in our arsenal." Smith set her cup down and drew her wand. It was a long, elegant piece of wood that seemed to hum with suppressed energy.
"The spell is Capacious Extremis. It is advanced spatial manipulation. Watch carefully."
She tapped her wand against her empty teacup. "Capacious Extremis!"
There was no flash of light, no dramatic bang. Only a subtle ripple in the air, like heat rising from a road.
"Try it," she urged.
Albert drew his wand and cast Aguamenti. A stream of water shot into the cup. Usually, the small porcelain vessel would have overflowed in seconds. Instead, the water just kept going. The level barely seemed to rise, even as Albert poured what must have been three gallons into it.
He reached out and picked the cup up. It should have been incredibly heavy, but it felt as light as if it were empty.
"Spatial expansion is only half the trick," Smith explained. "The charm also creates a localized gravity dampener. If it didn't, a wizard carrying an expanded trunk would break his spine the moment he stepped off a curb."
"It's brilliant," Albert said, peering into the depths of the cup. "I can see why the Ministry is so obsessed with it."
"Obsessed? They're terrified," Smith spat, her tone turning disdainful. "Think about it. If every wizard could carry a house in their pocket, the International Statute of Secrecy would collapse within a week. One failed charm in the middle of a Muggle street, and suddenly a hundred grand pianos and a library's worth of books are raining down on the sidewalk."
"So they restrict it to 'protect' us?" Albert asked, a smirk playing on his lips.
"They restrict it to profit from us," Smith corrected. "The law says you can't use it for 'personal use' without a fine, but then they conveniently leave loopholes for 'Ministry-Approved' products. Suitcases, travel tents, trunks... all manufactured by a handful of families who pay a hefty kickback to the Department of International Magical Cooperation."
Albert leaned back, fascinated by this peek into the dark underbelly of wizarding commerce. "So the law isn't about safety. It's a protection racket."
"Exactly. They inspect the 'approved' items to make sure the charms are stable, sure. But mostly they just want to make sure no one is making their own for free. Using power for personal gain? That's just standard procedure in the Ministry."
"If I were in their position, I'd probably do the same," Albert said thoughtfully. "Money is fine, but a monopoly on spatial magic? That's real power."
Smith froze for a second, her tea halfway to her lips. She looked at Albert, really looked at him, as if seeing a kindred spirit she hadn't expected. Then, she barked a laugh. "At least you're honest about your greed, Anderson. Most people hide it behind a cloak of virtue."
"I prefer to call it 'ambition'," Albert replied.
"Call it whatever you like, but if the Ministry catches you with a homemade expanded bag, you won't be heading to a boardroom. You'll be heading to Azkaban. They don't take kindly to people cutting into their margins." She gestured to the cup. "Now, enough politics. Try the gesture again. It's a sharp flick, like you're trying to snap a whip in a very small box."
Albert stood up and focused. He visualized the space inside the cup stretching, unfolding like a piece of origami.
"Capacious Extremis!"
He felt a tug on his magic—a significant drain—but the cup remained stubbornly the same size. The water overflowed immediately when he tried to fill it.
"Again," Smith commanded.
He tried ten more times. Each time, his movements became more fluid, his intent more focused. He could feel the spell hovering on the edge of success, the invisible barrier of the physical world resisting his will. He checked his internal panel. The skill icon was grayed out, but a progress bar had appeared: 15% Mastery.
"Don't look so miserable," Smith said, waving her wand to dry the table. "Most seventh-years can't even get the ripple effect. You have the raw power; you just lack the spatial intuition. You're trying to push the space out. You need to pull the 'inside' further in."
She walked over to her desk and scribbled something on a piece of parchment. "Here. It's a permission slip for the Restricted Section. There's a book called The Geometry of the Infinite by Adalbert Waffling's less-famous brother. It's dense, boring, and half the diagrams will give you a headache, but it explains the theory better than I can."
Albert took the note, the ink still wet. "Thank you, Professor."
"Don't thank me yet. That book is cursed to scream if you read it after midnight," Smith warned, though there was a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Go on then. Get some sleep. Tomorrow is a Hogsmeade day, and I suspect you have more than just candy-shopping on your agenda."