The morning sun crawled across the floor of Albert's guest room, waking him with a persistent, golden glare. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, still feeling the mental hangover from the previous night's revelations. It wasn't every day you were offered a billionaire's estate and a secret library of magical "cheat codes" just for being smart.
He looked around the room. It was elegant, silent, and smelled faintly of old parchment and expensive wax—a stark contrast to the Burrow's scent of wet grass and burnt toast. The golden book Brair Bulstrode had left behind was still heavy in his mind. The sheer audacity of a book made of precious metal was one thing, but the complexity of the runes etched into those plates was another. It was a level of alchemy that made standard Hogwarts textbooks look like coloring books.
"A mansion for a surname," Albert muttered, swinging his legs out of bed. "Funny how the world works."
He couldn't help but wonder about the ethics of the Wildsmith legacy. It felt like a refined version of ancient looting—wizards using their superior power to carve out pockets of extreme wealth and privacy, likely at the expense of unsuspecting Muggles or less-talented magical families centuries ago. But then, history was rarely clean, and the Ministry of Magic had built its entire infrastructure on "requesting" things they couldn't actually build themselves, like the Hogwarts Express.
"Not my circus, not my monkeys," he decided, stretching until his back popped. He showered, dressed in a set of clean, casual robes, and headed out to find some life in the silent house.
The mansion felt like a museum during the off-season. Long, echoing corridors lined with portraits that didn't even bother to wake up as he passed. He made his way to the dining hall, but it was empty—no smells of bacon, no clatter of plates. The house-elves here seemed to operate on a "visible only when summoned" basis.
Following the sound of a distant spoon tapping against porcelain, he found his way to the sunroom. It was a beautiful, glass-walled space overlooking a manicured garden that looked like it had been trimmed with a ruler. Isabelle was already there, sitting in a pool of light, focused on a plate of poached eggs.
"Good morning," Albert said, pulling out the chair opposite her. "I see you found the one room in this house that doesn't feel like a tomb."
"Good morning," Isabelle replied, setting her fork down with a graceful precision that always made Albert feel slightly uncoordinated. She studied him for a moment, her sharp eyes taking in the lack of sleep in his expression. "I take it your meeting with Mr. Broad was... illuminating?"
"Illuminating is one word for it. 'Blinding' might be more accurate, considering the contents of that box," Albert said. He was about to ask her why she had stepped aside to let him take the lead, but the quiet pop of a house-elf appearing at his elbow cut him off.
"What may Noel bring the young master for his morning meal?" the elf asked, his voice a melodic, high-pitched chirp.
"I'll have whatever she's having," Albert said, nodding toward Isabelle's plate. "And a glass of cold milk. That would be perfect, Noel."
The elf bowed so low his nose nearly touched his toes and vanished.
"I've been trying to convince my mother we need a house-elf for years," Isabelle remarked, pouring herself a cup of tea. "Ours is... well, he's old, and he thinks 'cooking' involves boiling everything until it turns into a gray paste."
"If you want a chef, I'm planning on 'recruiting' one from Hogwarts after I graduate," Albert said with a mischievous grin. "I'll have to have a very long, very persuasive chat with Dumbledore, but I think I can convince him. There are plenty to spare, and I'm sure one would appreciate a change of scenery."
Isabelle tilted her head. "You speak about kidnapping Hogwarts staff with a worrying amount of confidence, Albert."
"It's not kidnapping if they want to come. It's a career move," Albert joked, before his expression turned serious. "But really, Isabelle... why? You're just as qualified. Probably more, considering you've known about this world since you were in diapers."
"I don't regret it," Isabelle said, taking a slow sip of her tea. "The Wildsmith legacy is a massive weight, Albert. You saw the golden book. You saw the level of craftsmanship required just to understand the preface. Most people could spend their entire lives studying those plates and never produce a functional mirror. It requires a specific kind of obsession—and a speed of learning that I simply don't possess."
She looked at him meaningfully. "I'm a genius by standard measures, Albert. But you... you absorb information like a sponge in a waterfall. You're more suitable for the burden because you won't let it slow you down. For me, it would be a life's work. For you, it's just another Tuesday."
Albert felt a rare moment of genuine humility. Isabelle wasn't being modest; she was being analytical. She had seen the difficulty curve and decided the ROI wasn't worth her freedom.
"I was definitely dazzled," Albert admitted as Noel reappeared with his breakfast. "The sheer wealth of knowledge is hard to walk away from. But I'm starting to realize that the 'gold' in those books isn't the metal they're made of. It's the time they save you."
"Exactly," Isabelle agreed. "Though the difficulty of mass-producing anything from those records is why the two-way mirror disappeared in the first place. It's too hard to make, too easy to mess up, and requires a level of Alchemy and Transfiguration that most Aurors can't even dream of. It's not for the masses. It's for people like us."
Their conversation was interrupted by the heavy thud of footsteps. Katrina marched into the sunroom, looking like she'd spent the morning wrestling with a particularly difficult textbook.
"What are you two whispering about now?" she asked, dropping into a chair and looking suspiciously at the teapot. "More secret inheritances? Or just plotting to take over the world before lunch?"
"Actually, we were discussing the chemical stability of Beauty Potions," Albert lied smoothly, not missing a beat. "I was telling Isabelle about a girl I met in France—Louise. She had a bit of Veela blood in her, and she was looking for something to help maintain the 'glow' without the side effects of standard elixirs."
"A Veela?" Katrina's interest shifted instantly, her annoyance replaced by a flicker of curiosity. "Was she actually beautiful? Or was it just the glamour?"
"Strikingly beautiful," Albert confirmed, smiling as he tucked into his eggs. "But even Veelas have bad hair days, apparently. Louise was quite insistent that British potions were 'too thick and smelled like old socks.'"
Isabelle joined in, her eyes twinkling as she caught on to Albert's diversion. "She has a point. Most Beauty Potions are just glorified moisturizers with a bit of sparkle added. If we could improve the absorption rate using the theory of fluid dynamics Albert mentioned..."
Katrina ate her breakfast in silence, her eyes darting between them. She could follow the conversation now, but she still felt like she was catching the tail end of a much larger race.
Once they finished, the sunroom fell into a comfortable silence. The three of them sat reading for a while—Albert with a regular book, hiding his desire to go back to the golden codex—until Morg MacDougal appeared in the doorway.
"Mr. Anderson," Morg said, his voice booming slightly in the quiet room. "I trust you slept well?"
"Like a log, Mr. Morg," Albert said, standing up.
"Good. I was just speaking with a mutual acquaintance of ours—Mr. Adrian Delacour. A very sharp man, for a Frenchman," Morg said with a dry chuckle. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick envelope. "He asked me to pass this along. It arrived at the Ministry office this morning."
Albert took the letter, his brow furrowing as he recognized the elegant, slightly flowery handwriting. It wasn't from a Delacour, though. The sender's mark was for Cella Harris.
"Problem?" Katrina asked, leaning over to try and catch a glimpse of the wax seal.
"Nothing serious," Albert said, though his expression had shifted into something more guarded. "Just an invitation I didn't expect."
"Your face says otherwise," Isabelle noted softly. "You look like you've just been handed a puzzle with a missing piece."